If I Say No
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: WARNING: Food kinks, which may include starvation/suggested eating disorder, and maybe overfeeding later. Mycroft puts Sherlock on his diet with...exceptional results. M for sexytimes later. Johnlock.
1. Part 1

**If I Say No**

**Part 1**

Sherlock Holmes was fifteen, the height of adolescence. He'd had quite a bit of a growth spurt and had shot up in height, making him even longer and leaner than he'd been before. And he wasn't even done growing yet.

Sherlock always managed to look underfed. Even after stuffing his face and declaring himself full with a burp, Sherlock's cheek and hip bones were prominent and ribs were visible (though, after a meal, they'd only just be visible through the pale skin). Mycroft thought that was positively hateful.

Mycroft Holmes was twenty-two. After being at University, he'd gained some twenty pounds and hadn't been able to shake it. His metabolism was not as good as his little brother's, and as a result, he was…chubby. He had a soft, round belly that peeked over his trousers, while Sherlock's concave stomach would never dream of doing such a thing. Mycroft was on a diet. And this just wouldn't do.

It was mid-May. At the end of August, Sherlock would be attending Cambridge, much to his chagrin. Sherlock hated school, always had, because of his genius-level intellect. Mycroft would be at an internship from mid-September.

Sherlock and Mycroft weren't particularly close. Too far apart in age to play with each other, they grew up in their own separate worlds. As they got older, it was easier for tension to drive a wedge through their relationship, and Mycroft's apparent weight gain hadn't helped.

The boys were home alone tonight. Father had gone off for his weekly poker game, and mummy had some benefit or other to attend, so Sherlock and Mycroft were alone in the mansion, besides their night maid, Anna, who had made them each dinner.

A rich ham, which was by now bone and grizzle, sat on a platter before them. Salad and dinner rolls and little heavenly tarts, cookies, and cakes were on either side of the main course. Mycroft, though hungry, had tried to fill up on salad and only have a little of the ham. He was still munching on the fresh green leaves scattered around his plate. Sherlock, on the other hand, had demolished most of the ham and was still clearing the plate he'd piled high as if he hadn't eaten a decent meal in years, only pausing to turn the page of the novel he was reading.

Mycroft felt nothing but burning hatred, especially as he looked at the decadent miniature chocolate cakes with rich, chocolate icing made only from the best ingredients calling to him from the dessert platter. He was started from his reverie as Sherlock muffled a burp into his hand and leaned back in his chair lazily, a hand on his flat stomach.

"Are you done?" Mycroft asked, his smile venomous and sarcastic.

Sherlock nodded, yawning. "Might turn in early."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Not been getting proper sleep lately?"

"I was experimenting on some tadpoles I bought at the pet shop. Some of them managed to turn into frogs. I'll let them free tomorrow."

Mycroft chuckled. "You and your frogs, Sherlock."

"I find that I can concentrate better if I don't let outside things like eating or sleeping affect me." Sherlock grinned. "I haven't exactly eaten very much these past couple days. Enlightening as it is, I was _starving_!"

"I noticed," Mycroft said coolly.

"I see your diet's going well," Sherlock noted, his eyes running up and down his brother. "Let's see…three pounds off, was it? And Dana's broke it off with you?"

Mycroft sighed. "We went our separate ways, Sherlock."

"She broke up with you." Sherlock's eyes were on the tarts. He leaned across the table and picked one up, sinking his teeth eagerly into it. "Mmmm…strawberry. My favorite." He swallowed happily, closing his eyes and licking his lips to erase all traces of the tart from the outside of him before his tongue ventured forward to catch a drop of filling before it leaked out of the tart and ruined his white skinny jeans.

Mycroft scowled. Sherlock _loved_ sweets; both brothers had inherited the sweet tooth trait from their mummy. Mycroft, however, had evidently inherited her pudge, while Sherlock was thin as a rod, like their father. Something…different came over Sherlock when he ate sweets. All other food he devoured almost without tasting, but sweets he relished, ate as slowly as possible, closing his eyes after every bite, taking his time to lick, to examine, to enjoy. And Mycroft, on a diet that was working for him (he _had_ indeed lost three pounds, and expected to lose three more by week's end), absolutely _hated_ Sherlock right now.

Then, he had an idea. "You know, Sherlock, metabolism fades with age."

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled distractedly, busy sucking the filling out of the tart before tossing the light, flaky pastry into his mouth, chewing while he grabbed another.

"Yes. And if your 'work' is so important to you, well…" Mycroft smirked, knowing how to hit his brother where it hurt, "it wouldn't do to have any sort of fat, now would it?"

Sherlock paused, his mouth open as he was about to indulge in the sweet. He closed it again, drawing his hand away from his mouth. "What do you mean?" He asked slowly, his brow wrinkling as he frowned, indicating deep consideration of Mycroft's statement. Surely he knew by now what Mycroft was implying, but the elder Holmes just had to say it himself.

"Keep eating like that, and you'll get fat."

"Oh, God," Sherlock swallowed in obvious alarm, leaning back in his chair. He put the tart down, abandoning it on his plate, his ice blue eyes wide in panic. Mycroft smirked. Sherlock may have been an independent teen, but his mind was still suggestible. And Sherlock intended to be the greatest detective there ever was. Naturally, the job would require him to be fit and trim, if he were ever to pass the physical for the police force. "Really?" He asked, breathless.

"Oh yes." Mycroft looked idly at his nails. "Metabolism slows down as you age. You might be skin and bones now, Sherlock, but in a few years," he shrugged, "Who knows? You might end up looking like me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Never! That's ridiculous!" But Mycroft deducted a hint of uneasiness in his brother's voice.

"You could go on a diet, you know," Mycroft went on. "Just like me. Nothing _too_ extreme, of course, but you _could_ start watching what you eat. Being conscious of just _how much_ you're eating." He did a little happy dance inside as Sherlock poked at his full stomach with a disappointed frown.

"Bullocks," Sherlock muttered, grabbing his novel and getting up from the table. "I don't need to diet! I'm fine! Mummy says I should be eating more, anyhow. I'm underweight!" He scowled at Mycroft and stomped out of the room. "Just sod off and leave me alone!"

Mycroft just laughed. His plan had worked.

Even after all his protestations that he "didn't need" to diet, Sherlock ate considerably less at mealtimes. Then, he began refusing dessert. Sometimes, he would only push at his food during mealtimes, only nibbling on a bite or two if mummy said something.

By the time Sherlock went off to University, he was the thinnest he'd ever been. White as a sheet with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, unruly black curly hair a veritable mop on his head, chapped pink lips, and prominent ribs and hipbones gave him the effect of looking either sick or dangerous. His classmates avoided him like the plague.

Because of his extreme malnutrition, Sherlock failed the physical for the official police force. Frustrated, he dropped out of Cambridge and loitered around London doing odd jobs. He was nineteen.

Meanwhile, Mycroft, at twenty-six, had long since abandoned his diet. As a member of Parliament, he went to lavish dinners, ate rich food every day of the week, had a desk job with minimal legwork, and had reawakened his love affair with cake.

The next time the two Holmes brothers met, it would be on far stranger tides.


	2. Part 2

**If I Say No**

**Part 2**

"Sherlock! You're looking well."

Sherlock hissed by placing his tongue against the back of his two front teeth. "I'm well under ten stone and you _know_ it!" He snapped.

It had been several years since Mycroft had dared to contact Sherlock. Sherlock was now twenty-five and Mycroft was thirty-two. Mycroft folded his hands on his belly and leaned back in his chair. "Nice to see you, too. I was hoping we could have lunch together to catch up. My treat."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock snapped. "Are we done? I have to schedule a flight."

"Oh? Where, pray tell?"

"America. Florida, to be precise," Sherlock replied, crossing his arms over his chest and resting all his weight on his left leg with an impatient sigh—he was bored, clearly.

"_Ah_," Mycroft smiled fiendishly, tapping a finger against his chin. "See? Now _this_ is why I wanted to catch up with you, Sherlock! And you _must_ be in need of a decent meal, if I do say so myself. It's almost teatime and you haven't had a bite to eat all day."

Sherlock's eyes shot towards his brother, narrowing. But that couldn't disguise the slight haze in them, caused by malnourishment and undeniable hunger, didn't help the swaying he tried to hide. But Sherlock was not going to be able to fight this one with his brother—he was much too fatigued, anyway.

Up until last week, Sherlock had been living as a homeless person on the streets, making friends in London's underground. Having been clean for years since university, he nonetheless made a considerable amount of money as a coke dealer, a special solution he'd invented which went by the street name "Lucky Seven." It had earned him enough money so that he could clean himself up and start looking for cheap accommodations. He was currently residing in a motel just down the road from Baker Street. He'd been watching one of the flats there for some time now, and intended to rent it eventually.

Because of his predicament, Sherlock rarely ate or slept. It wasn't as if he needed to, anyway. He'd been dieting since he was fifteen, and could go without food for weeks at a time. But, being at the Diogenes Club, amidst the smokers (Sherlock had quit them last week and was wearing nicotine patches now) and smells of early dinners being taken in private rooms, he felt his resolve weaken.

"Okay," he said grudgingly. "Let's off out."

In no time at all, they had reached their destination. It was some incredibly fancy restaurant Mycroft apparently frequented, as the waiter knew his name and brought the two brothers to a secluded booth close to the back. The waiter gave Sherlock a menu. When the younger Holmes questioned it with a look, Mycroft explained that he already knew what he wanted (so did the waiter) and emphasized that Sherlock should eat whatever he wanted.

Sherlock ordered crab cakes with a side of cooked vegetables, as that looked the least-fattening out of all the choices, and sipped at his water cautiously, hating every moment spent with his older brother, loathe to admit he was shy to eat under the disapproving glare. He swallowed nervously as he turned his straw about in his water, clinking the ice against the glass, as Mycroft prattled on about this and that like a clucking hen. All Sherlock could think about was that day ten years ago when, at fifteen, he'd become weight conscious, so afraid of even the slightest bit of fat that he soon became unable to eat for long periods of time.

He still found a way to be a detective. He'd invented a job—_consulting _detective—and had managed to make friends with a young DI who was often in over his head. While he helped out the police, he never ate or slept to allow all his blood to flow to his brain for thinking. He wasn't currently helping out the police, though he was helping out a kind, elderly lady who happened to run the houses at Baker Street he was looking at.

Mycroft interrupted his thoughts as the house wine—a sweet red—was brought to their table. "So, why is my baby brother going to _America_ of all places? Someone so calorie conscious among all those takeaway places?" Mycroft tutted with his tongue. Sherlock wanted to shoot him in the face.

Part of him was snarling: _I don't __**need**__ to be calorie conscious, you bloody idiot! I'm underweight enough as it is!_ But he quelled his anger, trying to relax as he poured himself a swallow of wine from the decanter. "Mrs. Hudson needs my help."

Mycroft leaned forward. "Who's Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Her husband's been sentenced to death in Florida."

"And you're going to ensure it." Mycroft smiled like an engorged snake. Sherlock felt his lip twitch. "How…heroic of you. Oh, look! The food's arrived!"

Sherlock drew his arms away from the table, not wanting to get his favorite possession (a beautiful, custom wool coat that was both warm and able to move, and helped to hide how thin he really was from unsavory eyes) dirty. Two steaming crab cakes with fresh vegetables lay in front of him, along with a side of sweet-smelling garlic bread. Sherlock's mouth began to water and his stomach groaned with emptiness. His head swam as he tried to quell this sudden, embarrassing hunger, trying to think back to the last time he ate. When…?

He couldn't think. He didn't care. He dove right in.

For fifteen seconds, he forgot where he was, who he was with, and the strict diet he'd been on for years. For fifteen seconds, he stuffed his face, sending food cascading down his throat, only pausing to drink water. In fifteen seconds, he'd finished off one crab cake and was about to start on the other when a slight chuckle stopped him.

"I'm glad to see you're enjoying this," Mycroft was enjoying his own meal—carved turkey with gravy and cranberry sauce—smiling. "You're _far_ too skinny."

Sherlock bit his lip and began to eat slower. He tore off a piece of garlic bread and bit into its deep, warm center. The flavor exploded in his mouth and he sighed in ecstasy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed food this much. Mycroft's presence made him slightly nervous still, but his statement of approval let Sherlock become more lax.

Things were quiet as they ate. Sherlock had actually cleared his plate of food—the first time in nine years—and was now sipping at his wine, enjoying the feeling of warmth in his stomach.

"Dessert?" Mycroft asked. "This place has some of the _best_ chocolate cake in all of London!"

Sherlock didn't say no.

Sherlock went to Florida and ensured that Mrs. Hudson's husband died on death row. He returned to London and began to eat and sleep like a normal person—in fact, he began to indulge, as he had in his youth. He tried new pastries, finished large meals, and continued to work for the detective force, continuing the familiar pattern of starvation while he worked.

It was Mycroft who noticed when Sherlock began to get healthy again. When he mentioned it while they were catching up a year later, Sherlock instantly felt the shame of his youth coming back to haunt him. He'd eaten no more of his meal that night and began again to eat less and less, though not as extremely as before.

And then, Sherlock Holmes met Doctor Watson.


	3. Part 3

_The character age doesn't match up with the age of the actors—sorry! But not very important, really, is it?_

_In my head-canon, Sherlock is a Capricorn. Some traits don't fit, but I think most of them do. Apparently, in my head-canon, Mycroft is also an asshole.-SH_

**If I Say No**

**Part 3**

_Hey, Sherlock.-M_

_Did you eat breakfast?-M_

_I'll be in a meeting, so please don't text me.-M_

_Don't fill up on Bakewell tarts!-M_

_Why don't you answer me?-M_

_You're so childish.-M_

_Candy will give you cavities. You know how much you hate the dentist.-M_

Sherlock finally put his phone on silent. After that, his phone buzzed with more texts from his brother, but he simply didn't care anymore. The serial suicides were far more interesting than anything his brother could possible be texting him at the moment.

And he hadn't had a bite to eat in weeks. Well, he cheated a little on his birthday two days ago, but a stick of celery and a miniature tart didn't really count. Did it?

It hadn't even been a year since Mycroft had mentioned he was beginning to look healthy again. And that word was just a kinder way of saying "fat," particularly when Mycroft said it. His older brother had put himself on a diet with success—he'd managed to lose most of his pot belly (a small ghost of it could be seen under his business suits), and Sherlock simply went back to eating little.

At least until these suicides popped up. Now _that_ was interesting. Sherlock had been subsisting on coffee and tea for weeks, getting the occasional text from his brother, who was worrying about Sherlock's weight.

The consulting detective was just loading some slides for his microscope in the lab when the door opened. Sherlock looked up, only to see Mike Stamford and…an army doctor, invalided home from either Afghanistan or Iraq.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

The first thing Doctor John Watson noticed upon walking into the lab was not the man loading the microscope slide. He saw all the new technology. "Bit different from my day," he said to Stamford.

"You have no idea," Mike replied, chuckling warmly.

What finally attracted John's attention to the man who had thus far been quiet was the deep, commanding baritone: "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

John observed. The man was tall, probably just over 6 feet. His face was thin with fierce, jutting cheekbones, though he dressed professionally in a suit. His dark curly hair looked tamed with minimal effort, trimmed just out of his eyes as he worked. John frowned. The man was underweight. Severely. Even with his layers, John could tell that the man was severely thin.

"Sorry, other coat." Mike replied, unapologetically.

John reached into his pocket automatically. "Here. Use mine."

The other man seemed delightfully surprised. "Oh. Thank you." He strode over and began to text. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—?" John asked incredulously. _How did he know…?_

Suddenly, a young woman in a lab coat came in with a cup of coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you."

John was lost in thought a moment, still trying to figure out—

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"Sorry?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

After the mundane conversation was finished, Sherlock remembered he'd left his riding crop in the mortuary. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked, and then nodded at Mike. "Afternoon." And he was off again.

The coffee in his veins served to fuel him for now, and later on, nicotine patches would help pull everything into perspective. Things with John, his new friend, were falling into place nicely. John had even managed to save his life.

Sherlock, after all was said and done, was _famished_. He had, after all, been running several weeks on empty, and just the past few days on very little food. And Mycroft had stopped texting him about his eating habits. _Finally!_ "Dinner?" He asked.

"Starving." John replied.

Sherlock was about to lead them off, down the road towards a good Chinese place, when who should appear but Mycroft.

Sherlock was very openly hostile towards his brother, though between their twinkling eyes, another conversation was taking place.

_You're hungry._

_And you had dinner two hours ago. What of it?_

_Were you going to that new Chinese place?_

_Maybe._

_Takeaway isn't the healthiest meal you can have…_

_**Shut**__**up**__, Mycroft!_

_It's just, you're looking so…healthy. I wouldn't want you to ruin your perfect little streak._

_Healthy?_ Sherlock tried to picture himself, standing only in his boxers, staring into the mirror. His face was thin and sharp, his shoulders and arms all angles. Around his chest, his breastbone ghosted just under a thin layer of skin, and his ribs were quite prominent, particularly when he stretched. His stomach was not only concave, but it was as if someone had pushed it in entirely, almost to his spine. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. _I can't __**possibly**__ look healthy! _

Mycroft clicked his tongue at his brother. It's true that he didn't quite fit one's definition of "healthy." The elder Holmes saw from the severe cheekbones alone, and the way that Sherlock was shaking slightly, that his baby brother needed something to eat. His eyes softened. _You're right. You should eat._

Sherlock only glared suspiciously. "Do try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic."

At dinner, though he was lively, chatting about the case with John and swapping stories and just being social in general, he only nibbled at his food. _Why was Mycroft so intent on __**getting**__ me to eat? He changed his tune awfully quick._ Sherlock only ate enough so that the tremor that had begun to hum through his body like an electrical pulse had calmed, waited for John to finish, paid, and then went home to sleep.

The emptiness in his stomach and the hunger that came with it shouldn't have been enough to keep him awake. But it did.

_Oh_, how it did.


	4. Part 4

_I REALLY hate Mycroft. Can you tell? I was never a big fan of him in the series (actually, I had a theory that he was Moriarty the first time I watched the first two episodes), but "A Scandal in Belgravia" just ruined all the good thoughts I had about Mycroft Holmes, never mind his part in his own brother's downfall in "The Reichenbach Fall." So, yeah, I dislike Mycroft. Maybe we can all dislike him together for a little while. Humor me.-SH_

**If I Say No**

**Part 4**

"Sherlock,"

"What?" Sherlock snapped, drawn out of his thoughts. He was lying on his back on the couch, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin.

"You need to eat something." It had been a week, and John was no longer afraid of Sherlock's stroppy behavior. Sherlock had a quick temper that was quicker when he was bored, but John failed to sense any real hostility in it.

"Why?" Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips. "We had Chinese a couple nights ago."

"Nearly a week ago." John got up from his chair with a grunt. "I'm making sandwiches. You might want one."

Sherlock scoffed. A week? He was _fine_! Better than fine! Able to survive for at least another three days! Longer if London's criminal underground decided to become interesting.

From its place on the coffee table, Sherlock's mobile buzzed. He'd kept the volume on it low ever since he'd been barraged with texts from his brother. Why Mycroft had decided to text him when he preferred to talk was beyond the consulting detective—not because he couldn't find the answer out, but because he had no interest in why. With a languid groan, he lifted his mobile and opened the text.

_Not going to let yourself be seduced by John's cooking, are you?-M_

Sherlock set his mobile down again with an impatient sigh and went back to thinking. Just as his brain had gotten on a nice, fast, luxury train of thought with a comfortable first-class box, his mobile buzzed again. Sherlock agitatedly grabbed it and read the text.

_They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, after all.-M_

Sherlock set his mobile on his chest and waited. It was obvious he wasn't going to get any thinking done until Mycroft was finished bullying him. If the consulting detective had had any appetite at all, it had vanished completely by now. Instead, the familiar feeling of emptiness replaced every emotion. Sherlock closed his eyes, fairly certain this is what it felt like to drown. Perhaps a more adequate feeling: suffocate. That was the same as drowning, in something you can actually breathe…

As expected, his mobile buzzed yet again. Sherlock looked at the text with empty, soulless eyes.

_John likes to make pasta and sandwiches. Carbs. Isn't it so hateful?-M_

Sherlock swallowed. Carbohydrates were _not_ horrible. Foods of all kinds were required to keep the brain fully functioning. He hadn't even needed to experiment to know that. Protein gave him strength, sugar and caffeine in measured amounts gave him energy, vitamins were essential to different faculties of his transport, and carbohydrates…

Buzz. _Well, what do carbohydrates do?-M_

Sherlock hated that, how Mycroft could somehow sense what he was thinking. It made him feel raped. Invaded by an unwelcome party quite against his will. It made him feel like nothing was private.

But, what if carbohydrates actually did nothing? No, no, they had to do _something_: every type of food existed for a reason!

Sherlock liked carbohydrates. He was partial to a good meal of spaghetti and meatballs, or a small bowl of buttered pasta with cheese on top. Pasta especially was good to eat after the long, grueling cases when hunger was gnawing. Just half a plate warmed him, relaxed him, let him feel a warm, sleepy comfort. It was…nice. Pasta was like a warm bed on a cold winter's night.

_Pasta? Really? You have a weakness for pasta, of all things?-M_

_Pasta is not food. Pasta is a bunch of yellow worms covered in cheese.-M_

_Remember when I told you where pasta comes from?-M_

_All food is bad. Meat is contaminated by disease, sweets will make you fat, you don't have to eat to get vitamins, and carbohydrates are just as bad as sweets.-M_

Sherlock felt sick, the week-old Chinese (which he _knew_ had been digested by now—that was the annoying bit) making him feel heavy and sluggish and slow beyond belief. He thought that he was going to throw up. If food was really this bad, why did Mycroft insist on eating it? Why had Mycroft taken him out so many times?

And _why_, why under the sun, would Mycroft retract his scolding and tell him _to_ eat?

_Oh._

_OH!_

Sherlock sat up, the revelation bright in his eyes. Maybe the reason Mycroft was trying to make him eat was because he was trying to make Sherlock fat! Well, that would never happen. Not if he lived to be a hundred.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John, a sandwich on a plate in hand, had been just about to return to his seat, but was startled by Sherlock's sudden epiphany.

Sherlock realized his heart was beating faster than usual. He needed several nicotine patches to calm down, to sedate himself, to get back to thinking. His mobile buzzed one last time in his hand.

_Dead men tell no tales. Sleep well, Sherlock.-M_

"I—" Sherlock's mouth hung open with words that strangled him and wouldn't come out. How did he explain that his older brother was bullying him, trying to make him fat? "Y-yeah, of course." He said shakily, running a hand through his unkempt hair as he laid back down.

"All right," John replied, a bit suspicious and not afraid to show it. He didn't know Sherlock all that well, but he knew how to spot an evasive tactic. He'd seen it all the time in patients who were loathe to admit something hurt, that something was wrong. The best thing to do was to offer comfort. "I'll be here if you need to talk." He took a bite out of his sandwich and went back to reading the paper. All was quiet, and then…

Sherlock shifted on the couch until he was propping himself up halfway. "John?"

John looked up, and saw that Sherlock had undergone a transformation.

The same face that could look so severe and inhuman, with the sharp, prominent cheekbones and the cold, light eyes, pale lips spitting words like a cobra spits poison…looked softer. Childish. The cold eyes were wide, held a distinct human wetness to them; not quite tears, no, but emotion definitely. His brow was crinkled in the most innocent way, like a pouting child, and he looked…worried. Afraid.

"Petrified" was the word John chose to think of. Sherlock was petrified by his emotion.

"If I—" He paused, took a deep breath, and started again. John saw signs of an elevated heart rate, but chose to ignore it for the moment. "If I—decide. To talk." He swallowed, his dressing gown falling away from his shoulders, revealing a glimpse of the milky white shoulder, the clavicle prominent against the skin, the sleeve of his shirt having slipped down. John forced himself not to tut-tut like a mother hen about Sherlock being _far_ too dangerously underweight; Mrs. Hudson already did enough of that. "Will you—" But there was Sherlock looking fragile again. John couldn't help it: his heart melted with pity for the poor man. "Will you—listen?" Sherlock looked at his lap suddenly, running his fingers along the edge of his dressing gown. "Will you—let me say anything I want, no matter how…_stupid_," It was obvious he didn't want to use the word to describe himself or his actions. Had it been any other time, John would've laughed at the visible reluctance he saw in Sherlock's body language. "How _stupid_ it sounds? Will you let me?"

John smiled reassuringly, half as a doctor and half as a friend. "Of course I will, Sherlock."

Sherlock, relieved, seemed to have lost all his energy, for he fell back amongst the couch cushions in an instant. He settled one arm above his head, curving it to make room, and placed the other across his heart. He closed his eyes as his breathing slowed, and in a few moments, he was asleep.

John smiled and shook his head. Noticing Sherlock was shivering, despite the flat being of adequate temperature, he pulled the blanket from where it sat behind him and spread it over Sherlock. Then, he finished his lunch and blogged a while.

After all, Sherlock deserved whatever rest he could get.

_I cannot cry, cause the shoulder cries more._

_I cannot die, I a whore for the cold world._

_-Lyrics are The Poet and the Pendulum by Nightwish-_

_A note: head-canon also says that Sherlock pajama shirt is sleeveless, since it's hard to tell under the dressing gown. Dunno. It's head-canon. Roll with it.-SH_


	5. Part 5

**If I Say No**

**Part 5**

Sherlock was on a case.

That meant the consulting detective didn't let a bite of food pass or even touch his pale, thin lips, chapped from the fierce winds of autumn. He ingested coffee and tea and that was it.

The case hadn't been a very long one (it was only midway through day two), but Sherlock hadn't eaten anything for quite some time (he estimated it to be about a month, and only then little nibbles that would barely satisfy a squirrel, never mind a 26 year-old consulting detective with a high metabolism who, in addition, burned calories like nobody's business due to his chosen profession). And he was starting to feel the effects of the emptiness in his stomach.

It started when he was examining the corpse. Luckily, he was bent down so the sound was muted, but an unmistakable growl shot through his body like an electrical shock and eventually made its way to his ears. Sherlock looked up suddenly at the others gathered around the body. John was studying some suspicious bruising around the victim's ankles at Sherlock's request and Lestrade and some other techs were talking amongst themselves, watching him but not able to hear anything. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and felt the tension in his body loosen. When he stood, he pulled his coat further around him and didn't stay long under the eyes scrutinizing his lean face, complete with starved, jutting cheek bones.

It continued when he and John were investigating a lead. Walking through the streets of London at a brisk but relaxed pace, talking as usual, bouncing off the thoughts of his blogger so he didn't look like he was talking to himself, they eventually came to the alley Sherlock was looking for. An informant of his would be waiting. They were about to cross the street when Sherlock's vision became hazy in the corners. For a brief second, his head swam as he turned quickly to ascertain the problem with his peripheral vision. But there was nothing.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John asked, trying to mask his concern and not succeeding.

"Fine. Let's go." And Sherlock plowed into the street, ready to meet his informant and go on with the case.

It climaxed when Sherlock and John were chasing their suspect. John was shooting every so often, the bullets whizzing past Sherlock's shoulders, elbows, arms, as the soldier tried in vain to get a good, disarming but not killing, shot. But the man they were chasing was just as clever about dodging bullets as Sherlock himself would be and wasn't eager to get caught. Sherlock was running speedily after him, and almost had him…when his ribs and back began to hurt painfully. His vision blurred dangerously, and he felt as if his curls were on fire his head was so hot. He blinked, trying to push away the feeling, but the soles of his feet began to ache, his knees trembling. _No. Must go on. Must catch the suspect. Can't stop. Transport, don't fail me now!_ Sherlock leaped into the air like a predatory cat, crashing into the fleeing suspect and pinning him to the ground. John held the gun by his ear until Lestrade and the other proper Yardies showed up. Lestrade cuffed the man while Donovan lead him away.

Lestrade raked his eyes over Sherlock, observing every detail. The man was spent, breathing heavily, head lolling, knees and hands trembling incessantly, eyes too tired to stay open. Lestrade shook his head at the painfully thin detective and walked away. Sherlock caught his arm.

"Statements, Lestrade?" He asked, his voice cracking from shortness of breath. Lestrade had to force himself not to gasp at how pale Sherlock looked, particularly in the flashing lights of the cop cars.

"We'll have you in tomorrow," Lestrade informed him, his voice commanding. "Off you go." Even as an underrated man in the London under the watchful eyes and in the capable hands of Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade could order any man to do any thing he wanted. And sometimes, that included Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Right," Sherlock replied, his hand passing over his face in a moment of weakness. "Text me."

"You got it." Lestrade leaned against his car and smiled.

Sherlock tried to walk steady, but eventually leaned on John for support as they walked back to the main road to hail a cab and then go back to Baker Street for some well-deserved rest.

The cab ride was absolute murder for Sherlock. The consulting detective was famished and exhausted, his stomach painfully empty. Sherlock snuck his hand beneath his coat and pressed it first against his suit jacket and then the shirt underneath. Where at some point after meals in his youth, his stomach may have been flat, resting comfortably against the fabric of his clothes, it was now dangerous concave. Sherlock swallowed, tracing his hand down to feel at his exposed hipbones, jutting out over the top of his trousers. He wanted to groan aloud.

He was hungry. _Starving_, in fact. No, beyond that. He was so incredibly _empty_ that he didn't even know what feeling full was like anymore. Tears threatened as he thought of home in Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson had promised to make them a warm dinner ("Just this once. I'm not your housekeeper.") after this case. Damn. And he wouldn't be able to refuse. There was still so much to lose.

It got to the point where, in his head, he was praying for a condemning text from Mycroft. _**Please **__tell me I'm fat. __**Please**__ tell me that carbohydrates are bad. __**Please**__ tell me I'll be sick forever if I eat a Bakewell tart. __**Please**__, Mycroft!_

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Sherlock was elated. _Finally! What will you say this time?_ He opened the text with baited breath—!

_12 noon ok for you?-Lestrade_

Sherlock scowled and looked at John. "Noon at the Yard okay?"

John nodded. Sherlock texted. "I wonder what Mrs. Hudson made us." John licked his lips.

Sherlock frowned and looked out the window. _Something fattening, with so many disgusting calories oozing over it, just screaming heart attack._

_Oh, how I want it._

Sherlock stifled a moan as pain shot through his body, his stomach's emptiness made apparent. Somewhere, in the back of his head, a small voice was scolding him:

_You're __**too**__ skinny, Sherlock. Your transport is failing. You feel ill. _

_No I don't. I feel fine._

_You're having a dialogue with yourself._

_Damn it._

_Your bones are showing, your stomach is empty, your vision is blurry, you're trembling all over. You're not taking good care of yourself. Mrs. Hudson worries about you. And did you __**see**__ how Lestrade looked at you? Eat some dinner and feel better._

"Sherlock," John was standing at the door to the cab, leaning on it. "Your turn to pay fare."

"R-right," Sherlock, startled from his thoughts, climbed clumsily out of the cab and paid the fare.

When they got inside, the sweet smells of sweet potatoes and lamb filled Sherlock nostrils and his mouth watered. His stomach growled in anticipation and his weak knees got weaker. As he wearily climbed the stairs to the flat, he thought that maybe—just maybe—a little food down him wouldn't be _so_ terrible.

He licked his lips, imagining the tender meat of the lab traveling down his throat to his deserving stomach, followed by sweet potatoes laced with just a hint of brown sugar…

When his phone buzzed with a text.

_Really, Sherlock? You're going to give up so easily? You're doing so well!-M_

And another text quickly followed:

_Then again, I suppose looking healthy for a bit wouldn't hurt…-M_

Sherlock groaned, torn between the harsh words of his sibling and the smells of food he could tell by the noises coming from the kitchen that John was already enjoying. _Healthy. Who cares? I can afford to put on weight! I'll just lose the bones. It won't be so bad. At least I won't be so cold._ He shivered, even though the flat was toasty warm, his teeth chattering.

"_Oh_ this is _fantastic_!" John praised from the kitchen, food still in his mouth. "Sherlock, you've _got_ to try this!"

Sherlock was just about to stride into the kitchen, all skin and bone and hunger, when he received another text.

_When the bones start to show, it doesn't mean you've lost weight. It means there's more to lose.-M_

Sherlock couldn't help it. He read the text and tears filled his eyes. "I can't—" he murmured, his voice just above a whisper, before he turned on his heel and ran into his bedroom.

Despite his age and own qualms about emotions, Sherlock buried his face into his pillow and sobbed for all he was worth. Until he was exhausted and the tears eased him into slumber. His only comfort was that he _thought_ he heard, in his twilight zone, John concernedly calling his name, three raps on the door his signature 'something wrong?' knock.

To be fair, Mycroft had no idea what he was doing.


	6. Part 6

**If I Say No**

**Part 6**

To be fair, Mycroft Holmes had no idea what he was doing to his little brother.

He was losing resolve towards his own diet (despite having filled up on soup and salad, he was still tempted by the chocolate cake in his refrigerator) and thought that egging his brother on would help in some small way. After all, Sherlock was frightfully thin, and wouldn't take any of that seriously! Would he? After all, the old feud was more of a joke than anything now!

Maybe if he'd seen Sherlock, hungry, depressed, unable to eat because of words he used in jest, then Mycroft would give the feud as wide a berth as one gives an aggressive animal. But as it was, he was proud of himself that he'd succeeded in holding off his own cravings for one more night and could go to bed replete and happy.

So Mycroft Holmes finished his evening tea and did just that, his stomach warm and full from his delicious dinner.

Morning at 221B Baker Street saw John sitting in his armchair with his head in his hands, thinking. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night, worried for his friend and flatmate.

Sherlock was starved—had been star_ving_ himself for an immense period of time that was, to John, unfathomable. He was thinner now than John had ever seen any man, his weight probably comparable to the female models who ate nothing but the skins of fruit. How he managed to solve crimes while so undernourished…

John had seen signs, yes of course he had. Even though he'd never dealt with patients with eating disorders before, he'd known some people who had them. He was experienced in that field, if not medically than sympathetically, and he knew of the self-destructive behaviors. But he'd ignored them in Sherlock, because if one pried, the detective would retort so horribly, like some monster released, that it quickly became ground John feared to tread.

But he was an idiot. He'd _been_ an idiot, to let Sherlock starve himself to a skeleton. And now that he'd blatantly refused food—! Well, John didn't know what to do, except hope that Sherlock would talk. Maybe Sherlock didn't even _have_ an eating disorder. But what other explanation could there be? He was, literally, _skin and bones_.

John had saved a rather large portion of the dinner Mrs. Hudson had made for Sherlock to eat, but doubted Sherlock would want to start with that. He went into the kitchen to make tomato soup, which was low fat (not that Sherlock needed it, but John didn't know if he was a calorie-counter or not) and filling, a good start to a refeeding.

The smell of food aroused Sherlock from his dazed sleep. The detective sprang out of bed, only to feel lightheaded, blackout, and fall back painfully amongst the covers. He groaned, covering his eyes with his hand, and tried to rise again, this time more slowly.

He was rewarded for his patience with enough energy to go and brush his teeth and wash his face, which he did. Then, he weakly went back to bed, taking off his jacket and fumbling with his buttons. He shook his head petulantly as hunger plagued him again—the sweet, simple smell of cooking tomatoes—and his stomach rumbled. _Please text me, Mycroft_, he thought, although this self-torture was weaker in him today. Food began to seem like a good idea very quickly, especially as John entered his room with a bowl of tomato soup in his hands.

Sherlock observed his flatmate with wide, hungry eyes. He saw that John hadn't slept, that his face was calm but his eyes were worried, that he'd lost his appetite—but his mind kept dragging him back to the bowl that was still hot, little steam ghosts playfully rising from its surface. _Oh God._

"Hey, Sherlock," John greeted sheepishly. "I thought you might want some—" But he was interrupted by Sherlock quickly shifting into a sitting position, knees crossed, hands clasped, mouth open, eyes begging for sustenance. John shook his head, chuckling, somehow expecting the great consulting detective to refuse to feed himself. John let him milk it, bringing the spoon to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock, sitting there with his mouth calmly open, closed his eyes. But not because of the food that was about to be inside him. He thought about where he'd left his phone, hoping it was far away from where he was right now, far away from _this_ actually happening right now, as in , praying: _**Please**__ don't text me, Mycroft. __**Please**_. He gladly accepted the cool feel of the silver in his mouth and closed his lips over the spoon. John tipped the spoon upwards slightly, letting the soup pour out onto his tongue. The flavor exploded inside Sherlock's mouth and he swallowed eagerly, releasing the spoon and opening his mouth for more, knowing his trembling hands wouldn't stay still enough to bring any soup to his lips.

John smiled, glad the first spoonful went well. He wasn't sure what would happen, but with Sherlock's personality, he'd expected to get backwashed soup-of-tomato-guts in his face. The fact that Sherlock had not only taken but _swallowed_ the soup was an infinitely good sign. _Maybe he just needed some proper mother henning._

Sherlock watched another spoonful. And another. And another. John seemed to grow more pleased the more Sherlock ate, and Sherlock was happy to please, mostly because it pleased himself. The soup was warm in his stomach, the feeling of food at once so strange and so wonderful that Sherlock didn't quite know whether to jump for joy or throw up. He giggled when John realized there wasn't any more soup to feed him, afterwards sliding back under the duvet, yawning.

John nodded, glad Sherlock had finished the soup. "There. Is that better?"

Sherlock yawned again and curled up on his side, facing away from John. The body language was clear: I want sleep.

John got off the bed, where he'd sat to feed Sherlock, and went to the door. "If you're hungry when you wake up, I'll warm up the leftovers for you. I'll call Greg and tell him to bring us in another day."

Oh. Sherlock forgot about that. He sprung out of bed, grasping John's wrist, blackouts be damned. "_No_!"

John turned in Sherlock's grasp. The word was not a command, not Sherlock's usual gruff voice. This was more the whine of a child. He looked down into his flatmate's face, saw the sharp cheekbones, the pale irises of his eyes obscured by dilated pupils (far too dilated for the light in his room), felt the bony fingers that held tight to his wrist, saw just below the half undone dress shirt the protruding bones and the sleek outline of ribs against the practically translucent skin, the sharp, unhealthy concave of his stomach. "Sherlock," he reasoned softly, "you're tired and weak. You need sleep and food and peace. Lestrade can have you in when you feel better."

Sherlock raised and eyebrow, and then weakly slid back into bed. "You go," he croaked. "You give your statement. Tell Lestrade to email me and I'll give him mine."

"Right, then," John gently freed his hand from Sherlock's death grip. "Don't burn the flat down while I'm gone."

Sherlock chuckled sleepily, as it was a private joke between them. Then, he fell asleep.

John poured himself a cup of coffee and drained his mug before hailing a cab to Scotland Yard.

The Yard's coffee was, quite frankly, impossible to stomach.


	7. Part 7

_Sherlock is 27 in this fanon. My bad. I forgot my math._

_Also, just for hecks: The original Watson was two years Holmes' senior, for the sake of the fanon, can John be 29? _

_I've seen more grammatical errors than I can put up with in parts 5 and 6. I'll fix those. Eventually.-SH_

**If I Say No**

**Part 7**

Sherlock was scared of the thoughts he was having. Mostly because he liked to think that he wasn't crazy, that nothing was wrong, that he was actually dieting for his health and his work and not because of Mycroft's bullying.

_That tomato soup must be 400 calories, at least. (Tomato soup is 90 calories.) _

Mycroft was jealous. Jealous of Sherlock's metabolism, of his thinness, his ability to look underfed when he was really full. How many times had a teenage Sherlock declined extra helpings, protesting he was full, when in reality he looked sick and underweight?

_John put something in it, to make it fill your stomach! You were fine before! (I was faint and starving.)_

Well, he was underweight. Always had been.

_It's all your stupid transport's fault! It doesn't know when to just be good and shut the fuck up, does it?_

Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. The weight of the food in his stomach was becoming unbearable.

_It interferes with your work. Stupid transport. Transports are useless anyway._

He was beginning to feel worse for wear, having it there, sloshing around, his stomach churning around it, gathering nutrients.

_You've got a defective transport._

Sherlock felt nauseous, sick. He rose easily and went into the bathroom. He bent down over the sink, his head resting upon the mirror, the cool edge of the sink jutting into his ribs. Sherlock closed his eyes and made little groaning and whimpering sounds, until he felt the bile rising in his throat.

_It makes you think you're hungry and weak when you're actually okay._

Sherlock felt the scratchy, half-digested food and water and stomach acids and whatever else vomit was made of rush out of his throat and into the sink. He sat back, swallowing thickly, his throat parched because of his actions.

_You shouldn't listen to your transport anymore._

Sherlock daintily whipped his mouth with a towel and brushed his teeth. He stared into the mirror, studying his face.

He was handsome, he supposed, by some general consensus of the public. High cheekbones were ideal, signifying regality and nobility. His dark curls which he'd never felt the urge to cut (except for a bi-monthly trim to keep his hair away from his eyes and the back of his neck) were beautiful, the pale skin a rarity in today's world of tanned bodies.

But right now, he didn't see the highlights. For the first time in his life, he looked critically at his body.

_Look at the fat in your cheeks, around your chin. There's so much…__**skin**__. Everywhere. _

Sherlock went into the bedroom and tore off his shirt.

_Bones. Oh, they're beautiful! Look at how lovely, like edges carved in marble. Artistic, even. Isn't it great? And those hip bones! How your stomach just dips down between them? It's lovely, isn't it? A great start._

_(A great start?)_

_There's __**so**__ much more to lose, Sherlock. Your face is looking horribly neglected. _

_(Oh, God. I just forced myself to throw up. How did I do that?)_

_Look at that skin! Was that a roll there? No, there, turn around. Look! See? Right there, right below your rib? No, you've got to relax, don't suck in. Ah ha! There it is! Well, a couple more weeks of starving will put you in the proper mind, won't it? _

_(My God, I'm aching. I hurt all over. I need food, but…I don't?)_

_The pain feels good. You're doing good. Hunger is your friend. It won't ever betray you. Not like food. Food means calories, which means pounds. __**Skin**__. You don't want that, do you?_

_(I…I need nutrients. I like pasta. I love sweets. God, I want sweets. Chocolate chip cookies.)_

Sherlock licked his lips, feeling faint just thinking about warm, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, from Mrs. Hudson's oven. Just sitting there, all nice and gooey and sticky on her tiny kitchen table, just waiting to be devoured by an underweight, famished, and very, very much _too_ thin consulting detective.

But…

_Your brain is what's important. Everything else is transport._

_(Except when I'm fainting or my vision blacks out or my stomach growls.)_

_You don't faint. You simply sleep. Your vision doesn't black out. It gives you time to think. Your stomach is happy you don't eat. It's not important, anyway._

_(I need to talk to John.)_

_John won't help you diet. He'll shake his head and cart you off to a psychiatrist._

_(No!)_

_Yes. You know he will._

_(He wouldn't…)_

_He would. How many friends do you have, exactly?_

_(One.)_

_That's right._

_(John.)_

_Hunger._

_(No.)_

_Hunger and starvation._

_(No!)_

_The feeling of absolute emptiness, when your stomach begs for sustenance…_

_(NO!)_

_And you sit there calmly and refuse every bite._

_(__**NO**__! I can't! I'll die!)_

_A flat stomach is nice. A concave one is ideal._

_(No…)_

_Hahahaha._

_(Oh no…)_

_You've figured it out._

_(Oh God no…)_

_Oh God yes._

_(This isn't real! I'm dreaming!)_

_You wish._

_(I do.)_

_This isn't a dream._

_(Wake up, Sherlock.)_

_Nope._

_(Oh, __**do**__ wake up!)_

_Hahaha._

_(An eating disorder.)_

_Yes._

_(Fuck.)_

_What?_

_(Fuckfuckfuck__**fuck**__!)_

_This is what you really want._

Sherlock pinched himself to pull himself out of his mind palace. Suddenly, there were two voices in his head. One almost sounded like Mycroft, but it was a weird mix of his voice and Mycroft's, talking to him, taking over his mind.

Sherlock sat down on his bed and stared into his reflection in the full-length mirror. "I've got an eating disorder," he said to the skeleton in the mirror. "I think it was coming." He deduced, lying back to stare at the ceiling. "It was twelve years in the making."

Sherlock was not happy that the dominant part of his mind seemed to be concerned with not allowing him to ingest food, which at this point he sorely needed because if he didn't get proper nutrition soon, his brainpower would suffer for it.

He couldn't starve his brain forever. And he wasn't necessarily talking about his current lack of caseload.

All right, so the first step was over, right? Acceptance. He'd just thrown up in the sink, so obviously, he had an eating disorder. What was the second step?

Confession.

John.

Sherlock, in a sudden burst of energy, ran into the next room and dove his hand into his coat pocket, grabbing his phone. There were some texts from Mycroft, which he ignored. He opened a new message and typed in John's number and then his message, fingers flying over the page.

_I need to talk. Please come. SH_

He sent the text. Then, he stumbled over his chair and managed to sit in it before he collapsed completely. His phone buzzed and he looked wearily at the text. From John. Thank God.

_Okay, Sherlock. I'll be there soon._

Sherlock hit reply hesitantly. With even more hesitation, he typed the following and sent it before he could change his mind: _I'm scared. SH_

And it wasn't a lie or a stretch of the truth. Sherlock felt helpless and weak.

He began to cry again.

_I'm lost and stupid without you._


	8. Part 8

**If I Say No**

**Part 8**

Sherlock had relocated to the couch so that he could lie stretched out. He'd put his shirt back on, with the intention to hide the worst of it from John, but realized in this position that the silk would make everything visible.

He ate like a bird. An anorexic bird.

He couldn't do that anymore. Even if it killed him, he was going to eat like a normal human being. Oh God. Maybe it _would_ kill him.

No, Sherlock, it won't kill you. Calm down.

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath and pressed his folded hands to his lips, closing his eyes. He must've lost consciousness for a while because what woke him were John's heavy steps upon the stairs. The reason John's steps were heavy was not that he was heavy himself, but heavy-footed, and he tended to stomp more when he was angry, upset, or worried. Sherlock imagined he was a little bit of all three.

He sat up weakly as John entered the flat, a concerned look on his face. "What's wrong, Sherlock?" The doctor had good reason to be worried. Sherlock looked paler and thinner than when he'd left the flat earlier, looked worse than he'd ever seen them in the short while they'd been living together. He could see the prominent ribs and hipbones through the forgiving silk, and noticed dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, like bruises. He shuddered. The man looked ghostly in the pale grey light of early afternoon London.

Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees and put his folded hands under his chin. "I—I need to talk to you," he began, his voice shaky and nervous. That in itself was a rarity: Sherlock Holmes talking about _himself_, what John assumed was a problem.

A problem he was scared about.

_Eating disorder_, John thought. "Okay," he sat down in his armchair, shrugging out of his jacket.

"You—you'll listen? Is that okay?" Sherlock shivered slightly, his eyes wide. He looked like a small child about to confess to breaking a priceless vase.

John nodded. "Yeah. I told you that I'd listen if you ever wanted to talk. Friends do that."

Sherlock swallowed. "R—right. Well, uh, I threw up, so…"

John leaned forward. "You threw up?"

Sherlock nodded. "I didn't want to. Well, I did want to. I don't know," he looked away shyly, bowing his head just so, his eyes now hidden under the curtain of dark curls.

"You mean you threw up on purpose," John leaned back. "Oh. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"You were going to make lunch," Sherlock turned his head back with an air of confidence. Always the detective, it seemed. "You're hungry. You neglected yourself to take care of me this morning."

John rubbed his neck as his stomach rumbled. He hadn't had any breakfast other than coffee, it was true, but he wasn't _all_ that hungry. Not really. Oh, what was he kidding? Sherlock smiled, watching John's face. "What were you going to make, John?"

"We have some cheese ravioli," John replied, "and some tomato sauce. I was going to make that."

"Please do," Sherlock licked his lips hungrily, his eyes frosted over from years of malnourishment. "I'm starving."

John went into the kitchen to start preparing the pasta. It could cook while they talked. He marveled that Sherlock stated fact ('I'm starving') with as much of the cold, emotionless detective voice as could possibly be mustered. It sounded, well, like a fact! Not a feeling. And certainly not a feeling that Sherlock had surely been dealing with for a month, if not longer. "You won't throw it up?"

Sherlock swallowed. _Pasta is just a lot of disgusting carbohydrates._ "I'm going to keep it down if it kills me," he admitted ruefully. John chuckled.

After he'd set the pasta boiling, he went back into the main living area of the flat. Sherlock was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, his hands resting limply on his chest. The heat blowing in the flat made the silk shirt billow, reminding John just how thin the consulting detective really was.

"Okay," John sat down again with a sigh, "you know I'm not a psychiatrist, but…"

"I prefer you to a psychiatrist," Sherlock interrupted, turning his head to look at John and sitting up soon after. "Psychiatrists always want to know _more_. I think you will know just enough."

John nodded. He wouldn't pressure Sherlock like a professional might. He couldn't help feeling proud that Sherlock had chosen _him_ to talk to, and not someone closer to him, like his brother, Mycroft. Of course, he knew the two Holmes brothers didn't get on, but eating disorders were usually family matters, regardless. And speaking of that, did Mycroft, with all his genius, _miss_ the signs in his little brother? But John supposed he'd get the answers soon. Sherlock was sinking back into the couch cushions with a sigh, tilting his head back. Even the faint smell of the cooking pasta was probably enough to make him suffer—John himself was getting hungrier just thinking about it—but he stopped when Sherlock began.

"I was never a very good eater." Sherlock sighed, looking straight at John with hazy eyes of pale ice blue. "I cannot speak for my babyhood, but as a child, I was very picky. I complained if the food was too hot or too cold. I only ate certain things at certain times of day or days of the week. Like most children, I wasn't all too fond of vegetables."

John couldn't help smiling. "I can see that, oddly enough. A bratty kid."

Sherlock smiled back. "But I _loved_ sweets. By some miracle, I would always eat sweets. My parents would often shove sweets at me just to get me to eat _some_thing, but I was smart even then and knew how to balance my diet. I was always thin." He crossed his legs. "Mycroft was chubby in his youth, but by the time I was ten, he'd grown into his weight. Anyway, though, as I got into my teenage years, my hormonal body began to take over, as it does in all adolescents, and I began to eat more. My appetite grew, and soon I was not only clearing my plate (something I'd _never_ done in my youth, except if it was a sweet), but asking for seconds. But my metabolism was so high, that, even if I ate until I was full, I never looked anything more than healthy. I think one time, my stomach may have poked out a little, after one too many servings of turkey at a Christmas dinner, but it went away fast enough and I was hungry again before long. Also, because of the way I was built and also because of my metabolism, I was always underweight. Maybe not severely so—maybe by a stone or two—but the doctors worried I wasn't eating enough. Mummy encouraged me to eat all I could, and I did, quite happy to.

"Now, I always had an interest in science, and had begun to experiment properly by age eleven. As cases do now, it took up my time, and I forgot everything else, so I was always starving by the time I was finished. This was all well and good, of course. I was thin, hungry, and smart. Then, I turned fifteen." Sherlock, looking sick, lay down on his back on the couch. John went to check on the pasta and came back. "Mycroft, seven years my senior, was already through with University. I was accepted to Cambridge when I was fifteen on a full scholarship because of my grades. I was rarely studious, but I was of genius-level intellect so I always did well. I hated school, though, and despised University. I wanted to be a police detective, so my main focus was passing the physical. Anyway, one day in May, when I was fifteen and Mycroft was twenty-two, we were both home and our parents were out. Mycroft had gained some weight at University and hadn't been able to shake it. He was on a diet." Sherlock closed his eyes and massaged his temples with long, bony fingers. "To make a long story short, he…" he swallowed, "he…bullied me about my eating habits."

"That's horrible!" John exclaimed, shocked. _Now_ he knew why Sherlock refused to confide in his brother over this matter. _Now_ he understood. _Mycroft Holmes_, Sherlock's own _brother_, had been the cause of Sherlock's eating disorder!

Sherlock shrugged apathetically. "What was even _more_ horrible was that I listened. _Me_!" He cried, his fingers raking at his cheeks. He sat up, his voice rising to a shout. "_Me_ of all people! Thin as anything! Underweight! That I should've let him _poison_ my mind—!" Sherlock leaned back, calmed, and went on in a softer voice. "After that, it was all downhill. I went to University, paler and thinner than ever. My classmates shunned me like the plague. I failed the physical and dropped out of Cambridge at nineteen. I lived by my wits in the city, eventually gaining some prestige among the homeless. By this time, I rarely ate. When I was twenty-five, I met up with Mycroft. I'd been able to secure some temporary lodgings on Baker Street, established myself as a consulting detective working alongside Lestrade, who was still new to the Yard, and was about to ensure the death of Mrs. Hudson's husband. We had dinner together, and…I cleaned my plate. For the first time in years. I'd even had a little dessert. I didn't even feel awful about it," he explained. "I began to eat regularly, to indulge. I went to America to ensure the death of Mrs. Hudson's husband, and returned triumphant and healthy. I felt _free_. It was the best I'd felt in years. Of course, on cases, I starved myself. But I was looking better."

"What happened?" John asked, sensing Sherlock was about to reach the pinnacle of his story.

"Well, a bit before I met you, Mycroft and I had dinner again. Now, before, when we'd had dinner, he was fatter. Heavy. _Fat_." Sherlock hissed the word, almost as if it disgusted him. "By this time, he'd been dieting successfully and is how you saw him last. But he didn't fail to notice that _I'd_ gained weight. After that, I cut back severely, though not as much as before. And then you came along." Sherlock smiled. "But Mycroft wouldn't leave me alone. He bullied me to make sure I'd stay thin." He let his forehead drop to his knees, his hands playing in his hair.

John sat incredulous, trying to imagine what sort of torture this created for Sherlock—having his mind betray him—and could feel only sympathy. What he finally managed was laced with a quiet fury. "Why would he _do_ something like that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. I've tried to figure it out myself, but I come up empty."

"I'll bet," John replied lightly, "you're sure running on it."

Sherlock chuckled, and John started chuckling, too.

"Pasta's done," Sherlock said. A second later, the timer went off. John went into the kitchen to finish heating the sauce in the microwave, filling two large clean bowls with a heaping helping of ravioli and sauce. Sherlock had followed John into the kitchen and stood, silently watching, as John worked. He was tired and hungry beyond belief, and all he wanted to do was eat.

His phone, which was in his pocket, buzzed. Sherlock winced, but removed the phone from his pocket. Reluctantly, he read the text.

_Dinnertime yet, baby brother? What are you going to have? Nothing too fattening, I hope?-M_

Sherlock shivered, feeling sick again. John felt the tension in the room and turned around, setting the plates down, watching Sherlock's shell-shocked pale face. He certainly looked like he could use a shock blanket right about now. "What is it?"

"I've got a text," Sherlock murmured hoarsely, turning his phone over in his hands, his eyes gravitating to the floor. "I don't think I can eat, John."

"Why?" John felt himself asking the stupid question. Then, he held his hand out. "Let me see it."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his anxious eyes reading John's. But John didn't change his tone. "Mobile, Sherlock. _Now_." Sherlock sheepishly forked over his mobile, a flush of embarrassment flooding his pale face. John pointed to the bowl of pasta on the table. "Now eat."

"But, John, I don't think—"

"_Now_, Sherlock."

The detective fell heavily into his chair and began to eat, slowly and reluctantly at first, but his pace picked up quickly as he submitted to the gnawing hunger eating up every fiber of his being. John read the text, then scrolled through Sherlock's inbox. The more words he read, the more furious he became at the elder Holmes. How _dare_ he torture Sherlock over a little _jealousy_? John was sure that _no one_ on Earth, save the consulting detective himself, could forgo food like that, or manage to keep his weight from soaring into obesity from the amount of sweets he ate! Jealousy was all well and good, but _torture_? Torture was unacceptable.

Doctor John Watson had lived through Afghanistan, after all. He'd watched his fellow soldiers be tortured, mentally _and_ physically. He'd had to deal with the after effects; the shock, the tears, the screams. So, no, torture of any kind was not going to escape John Watson's fury. Holmes or no Holmes.

Sherlock felt the sea change and stood fluidly, half the pasta still on his plate. With his stomach, taste buds, and body crying for more, he crossed to John and gently pried his phone out of his soldier friend's fingers. He bent his head close to John's ear and whispered: "It's all right, John."

"_NO IT'S __**NOT**_!" John shouted, startling Sherlock enough to make the man backpedal, eyes wide. "It's _NOT_ okay!" John's anger was intense. Sherlock could feel it vibrating out of him. The soldier's breath came fast, his fists were clenched into tight balls, his stance looked stiff and uncomfortable. It would be bad for his shoulder and his leg. Sherlock, still feeling a bit like a cornered animal, tried to read John's emotions. John didn't like torture. He'd seen his mates get tortured. He wouldn't deal with it anymore. And now, here was his friend, an innocent (Sherlock debated that part) civilian, tortured. Mentally, not physically, true, but John saw no difference. Yes, London was a battlefield when you walked with Sherlock Holmes. And John saw this…

As war.

So Sherlock suppressed his fear, straightened up, narrowed his eyes, cleared his throat, and did what he did best. He _commanded_. "No, John." His deep baritone filled the room, a contrast from the weak, starved, thin man he truly was. That _John_ knew he truly was. Sherlock was pretending. Pretending that he hadn't confessed, that he was still hiding this eating disorder. He pretended like everything was okay, even though everything felt horribly wrong. "No, John," he said again, his voice softer, a plea, if you will. "No, John."

John closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths in through his nose. He relaxed his shoulders, unclenched his hands. Sherlock relaxed, too. But John wasn't done.

"I'm not going to let you get hurt, Sherlock," John comforted, hesitating before putting a warm hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder. "I'm not going to kill Mycroft, even though I really want to," Sherlock chuckled at his, bending his head just slightly, enough to touch John's platonically. "But I'm not going to let him hurt you anymore."

Sherlock sighed, and John liked that sigh. It smelled of pasta. Sherlock's breath was warm, his eyes hungry. "What do you propose, Doctor?" His voice was almost eager, but there was a hint of apprehension. Sherlock trusted no one.

Well, maybe just one man.

"Let's go on holiday," John decided. "We'll get you away from the city. Away from the pressures of society. It usually helps addiction and eating disorder patients to get away from the source, as it were. Relax a while. We'll rent a country house. You can help Lestrade over the computer." He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, effectively holding him close. "But this is for _your_ recovery, _your_ health. So you can take your phone. But if Mycroft texts you, or calls you, I don't want you to read or answer. I want you to give it to me and let me handle it. Okay?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes, John." Then, he opened them again. John saw excitement light up the center like fireworks. Sherlock's lips were smiling, too. "But why rent a house? My family owns one."

"Really?" John asked. How could he expect to know this, when Sherlock was closed about his personal life?

"Yes. It's a beautiful little house. I've only been once, years ago. I'll call mummy and tell her I've decided to go. She can have a maid come in to clean up the place, maintenance workers in to check on things, and then we'll be set to go."

"Won't Mycroft find out?"

Sherlock looked up. "I suspect Mycroft has some sort of surveillance on Baker Street. But it'll be fine. I don't care."

John chuckled. "All right. Go finish your dinner, you skinny git."

Sherlock smiled and obeyed. John sat down to his dinner as well. They talked about the case, about Lestrade and the Yardies, and about the upcoming recovery.

John was glad Sherlock was taking to the concept. Most people with eating disorders never admit there's a problem.


	9. Part 9

_Please excuse me for horrible geographical incorrectness and horrible portrayal of the English countryside. I had the intention of researching what it's like…but I basically made up a little vacation spot for Sherlock and John. Please forgive me and I hope you'll enjoy anyway!-SH_

**If I Say No**

**Part 9**

"You're sure you're okay to drive, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. I'm fine. I've set the GPS coordinates so if you need to take over you can, but I'll be fine."

"All right, Sherlock."

That had been hours ago, that conversation. Now, it was dark, the road practically deserted except for the occasional animal, the strange glowing eyes caught in his headlights. For there were few cars on the road at this hour (it was a little past midnight) and no streetlamps, the only light provided by the headlights of the land rover.

Sherlock liked driving, because it was a lot like playing the violin. It helped him think. Especially if he was driving on a country road, with very few cars and virtually no disturbances, and it was black as pitch outside. It seemed blacker still for the headlights in fact, Sherlock noticed. As if everything was stranger lit up by the harsh, artificial white, and more familiar lit up by the pale, eerie blue of the moon and the stars.

A gentle snore brought him out of his thoughts and he looked to the passenger seat where John was sleeping peacefully, his head propped up on his elbow, leaning against the window. His face was crinkled by the pressure of his hand against his jaw making his lips curl out in a silly way. His breath came easy, and an occasional soft snore wilted through the quiet car, which was soothing to Sherlock. It was nice not having to be so alone in the world. His long-dormant heart warmed with sudden affection for his army doctor, and he had no other reaction than a smile as he turned back to watch the road.

He was hungry, having been getting hungry since their departure earlier this afternoon, when John had gotten a takeaway chicken Caesar salad for the two of them to share. It was best to eat light, John surmised, when driving so that one doesn't fall asleep. And he was worried about Sherlock being a bad driver or worse. Sherlock had reassured him that the salad was fine—filling enough to get him through the journey. It was a lie, of course, but that was fine. He'd starved himself for years without feeling too many effects. He was not going to pass out from a few hours of hunger.

They were about halfway to the town, and once they reached the town, it would only take twenty minutes to get to the Holmes vacation house, which was on a secluded, private plot of land and yet was not too far from civilization. He couldn't wait for John to see it. John would probably think it was quaint.

Sherlock was entirely focused on the road once more when his phone buzzed in his breast pocket. Sherlock waited. It buzzed again. Who could be calling him at this late hour? Thinking maybe it was some ad for something he didn't care about, Sherlock couldn't resist whipping out his phone to give them a piece of his mind. "Sherlock Holmes."

"My dear brother, how _are_ you?" That gloating, lilting voice wasn't used for anything _less_ than important matters of British national security.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock spit nastily, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake John. He knew about John's rule about Mycroft while they were on this holiday, but the doctor was asleep. No need to wake him up.

"I see you've finally decided to go on holiday with your boyfriend." The younger Holmes could practically _hear_ Mycroft grinning from ear to ear.

"We _aren't_ dating."

"Things change. Like your eating habits." Sherlock swallowed. "You had something fattening last night, didn't you? You cheated."

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"What about this morning, hmm? You know, you're doing so well. Why must you ruin things?"

"It's _not_ ruining _anything_!" Sherlock growled, not realizing his voice had risen to a startling high volume.

"Pull over," Mycroft soothed. "Let's chat."

Sherlock pulled the car over to the side of the road. But before Mycroft could begin to talk to him, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Sherlock jumped, and found himself staring wide-eyed at the army doctor, who looked very stern indeed. "Hang on," Sherlock said into the phone, taking it away from his mouth. "John," he whispered. "I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

John held out his hand patiently and raised an eyebrow. The message was clear: _Give me the phone_.

Sherlock hesitated, but saw that John was not going to change his mind, no matter what he said, so he handed John the phone and sunk down into his seat almost in a pout.

John held the phone to his ear. "Hello? Is this Mycroft Holmes?" His voice was icily polite. Sherlock heard Mycroft yelling into the phone, but couldn't quite make out what was being said. He figured that was probably for the better. "No, you're _not_ going to talk to Sherlock right now. Why?" John tensed, and Sherlock giggled. _Ooooh_, Mycroft was going to get his! "Because you've bullied him far too much, and you're going to stop now." More protests from Mycroft. Sherlock hid his grin beneath his gloved hands. He didn't know why he was so ridiculously excited about John basically kicking Mycroft's arse. "_How_ have you bullied him? Look, I'm not even going to explain because obviously, you're dense and have no idea what you've done. Just know that if you call this number again, you're not going to get Sherlock. You're going to get me. Understand? Good!" And John hung up, handing the phone back to Sherlock. Then, he unbuckled. "Where's the GPS?"

"Your glove compartment. But—"

"My turn to drive," John explained. "You need rest."

"I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock stuck up his nose proudly, but found himself unbuckling regardless. "I can forgo sleep for long periods of time. But, if you insist on switching!" He leapt out of the car and slammed the door shut, striding proudly over to the passenger door. "I'll be happy to keep you company."

John laughed as he got into the driver's seat and set up the GPS. "You'll be asleep in five minutes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nice try." But, as John pulled out onto the road again, and the only sounds were the hushed roar of the tires against the road, the whoosh of the passing trees, and the soft voice of the GPS, Sherlock began to feel drowsy and days of insomnia began to weigh heavily upon his body.

Before long, Sherlock had drifted off into slumber. But not before he'd looked with great awe and gratitude at his savior, licking his lips thoughtfully as he drove. His chest warmed and his heart beat just a tiny bit faster as his eyes closed.

He dreamed about the soldier protecting him, warming him with so much more than the words he had spoken.


	10. Part 10

**If I Say No**

**Part 10**

Sherlock woke up because it was bright. At first, he didn't _want_ to be awake, so he groaned and tilted his head away from the offending light. But it was even lighter on the other side of him. Finally, Sherlock gave up and opened his eyes.

John was smiling at him, no jacket or jumper on now, one arm supporting himself against the open door and the other on his hip. He was wearing short sleeves and jeans. Sherlock blinked, weakened by the sleepiness still stubbornly intent on putting a spell over him.

"There you are, sleeping beauty," John smiled, his voice mocking. "You might feel better without your coat and jacket."

Sherlock yawned and then pouted self-deprecatingly as he shrugged out of his coat and unbuttoned his jacket. He supposed John couldn't tell, but he was wearing jeans as well—black, as they were a perfect camouflage for trousers—and a grey shirt. He rolled up the sleeves on the shirt absently as he stepped out into the sun, a bit woozy. "Where are we?" He asked lazily, sleep still holding him in its grasp, making him dazed and stupid.

"Town," John replied patiently. "At a restaurant. The GPS stopped directing me after I entered the place, so I stopped driving around aimlessly. Thought I'd stop and grab a bite. I'm starving," he confessed, running a hand through his short blonde hair.

Sherlock smiled, finally beginning to wake up. "Then by all means, lead on." He made a gesture meaning "you first," a sweeping, graceful motion. John laughed and walked on past him, with Sherlock following after a moment's pause.

The taller man drew up next to John and mused thoughtfully: "I've been here before."

"Oh yeah?" John asked casually as he pulled open the door to the restaurant. He was more concerned with the place's breakfast menu than anything Sherlock could deduce from it right now, even though he still found himself fascinated with Sherlock's incredible talent.

"Yes. Mycroft and I had dinner here while father took mummy to a bar. I was ten and Mycroft was seventeen." During this time, they were being seated at a booth. The waitress slipped two menus onto the table and smiled politely before retreating.

"Was it nice?" John peered suspiciously over the edge of his menu.

Sherlock knew what he meant. "Surprisingly, yes. Mycroft wasn't overweight then, and we had a common interest in science and crime. At that time, he was still teaching me about the method I now call my own, and we took turns deducing things about our fellow diners." Sherlock giggled, stirring his coffee absently with a spoon. "It was the first—and last—time I enjoyed eating in front of my brother."

John swallowed, uneasy at the implication of what that last statement meant. He felt bad now, for saying he was starving. While it was very much true, poor Sherlock had been starving himself for years. Speaking of that, Sherlock was only sipping his coffee, not even bothering to look at the menu.

"Aren't you going to—?" John began, gesturing towards Sherlock's untouched menu.

The consulting detective looked surprised for a moment and looked down at the menu he was currently resting his elbows on. "Oh!" He said, setting down his coffee and leaning back. "No, actually." His apathetic shrug made a flower of worry bloom in John Watson's brain.

"Sherlock," John breached the subject carefully, not wanting to frighten the mentally ill man. How odd, to think of Sherlock as being mentally disturbed! Even if an eating disorder was tame, compared to the things a certain police sergeant thought him capable of.

The thin man shook his head limply. "I _will_ eat," he clarified, suddenly drawing his hands into his lap, shyly dropping his gaze. "I can't not. I'm starving, too. Have been since we set off." His smile was shaky and embarrassed as his stomach growled audibly.

"God, Sherlock," John sat back, hissing a sigh through his teeth. "You didn't have to suffer."

Sherlock clicked his tongue dismissively, suddenly back in the saddle and just as confident about it as ever. "A few hours is _nothing_ compared to _years_ of deprivation." The sad thing was that John absolutely believed him.

"So, then…?" He was hoping to make the transition smoother, hoping Sherlock would just decide what to eat already. John was feeling guilty for being hungry, when really he shouldn't have been. But there you go.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't care very much _what_ I eat, so long as it's edible." His tongue wet his thin lips carefully, as if afraid he might taste deadly poison there and drop dead on the spot.

John nodded and glanced at the menu. "Crepes all right?"

"_Oooh_, yes!" Sherlock dove into action, flipping through the menu. "Where? _Where_?"

John chuckled into his coffee at Sherlock's hungry excitement. "Page three. Under the pancakes."

Sherlock began to tremble slightly from excitement as he looked over his options. "Yes," he nodded once, closing his menu. "Yes."

While they waited for their food to come, Sherlock talked about the town. It was a simple little country town, with family-owned stores. A heavy tourist spot in the right seasons, but quiet the rest of the year. The countryside was beautiful, and boasted—the way Sherlock talked about them—hours of entertainment from scenery alone. Compared to London, it was generally warmer and nicer here, with scattered thunderstorms beginning at night and lasting a few days. Rainfall came early in the morning and was never enough to hinder a casual walk through tall grass. Past the Holmes vacation home, Sherlock told him, horses were raised.

"We could rent them, if you like. Go riding."

"I didn't know you rode."

"I have a riding crop. Why else would I own one?"

Sherlock talked about the house. It was small, apparently—just enough for a family of four. There was an attic and a basement, the former always hotter and the latter always cooler than the rest of the house. There was a master bedroom and a guest bedroom and another room with bunk beds, but "we don't have to sleep there." There was a living area complete with spacious windows that looked out into a wonderful green yard with a swing hanging from a tall oak tree and a bench swing down by the small stream that started some ways away and ran through the property. In the right season, it would be alive with frogs and turtles.

"Is it the right season?"

"For turtles, maybe. We're a few weeks shy of the frogs."

John noticed that the conversation was tiring Sherlock. Not mentally but rather physically draining him, as if recalling the memories commanded as much attention as the most interesting of cases. He felt sorry for the malnourished man, and finally spoke up about it.

"You don't _have_ to talk, you know."

Sherlock had opened a packet of artificial sweetener and was busy pouring it onto the corner of his saucer, but he looked up, tossing the packet away. "I know, but isn't that what people _do_? When they go out to eat with friends?"

"Yeah. And usually, both people eat, too." John was referring to earlier times, almost forgetting about Sherlock's rather delicate condition. When he remembered, the smile left his face. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Sherlock laughed. "It's fine. You don't have to overanalyze everything you say. _You_ are not the cause of my problem. Speaking of," he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. He hesitated, before holding his mobile out to John.

John took it, proud to see that Sherlock had left the message waiting to be opened. John looked at the text.

_Once you feed him, he won't go away, you know, Dr. Watson. He'll just want more and more…_

_My brother is quite the little pig, you see. –M_

John fumed as he read the text. Sherlock anxiously reached for his phone. The army doctor calmed himself a little before closing the text and handing Sherlock's mobile back to him. The consulting detective paused before pocketing it. "Do I want to know what it says?" He asked with a defeated, tired sigh.

John shook his head. "Don't worry about it,"

Sherlock focused for a moment on a space behind John's head before nodding and turning his attention back to his coffee. "Food's here,"

In another five seconds, the waitress had brought their breakfasts on a large tray and was setting their food in front of them. John had ordered eggs and toast and sausage, and it looked heavenly. Sherlock had ordered crepes, complete with a soft dusting of powdered sugar, fresh strawberries on top, and fresh maple syrup and honey drizzled on top. The waitress wished them _bon appétit_ before departing.

John ignored his empty stomach in favor of watching Sherlock. The younger man moaned, leaning back against the booth with a tired sigh, his eyelids fluttering closed.

"_Oh_," Sherlock whined, placing a hand weakly over his stomach. "I think I just might faint on principle! _God_," he sighed, and it shook his whole body. John noticed that Sherlock tinted just slightly pink in the cheeks from his emotion. "John, I haven't eaten _crepes_ in—well, I haven't." He opened his eyes. They were as wide as John had ever seen them, the glaze haunting them a sure sign of malnutrition and hunger. Sherlock knew his mental facilities were failing _just enough_ to let him know that, goddammit, he needed to eat.

John nodded patiently, pushing but not willing to push, wondering if the nudge in the right direction would be meant with retaliation. Even at this stage, where hunger had clearly risen over reason, Sherlock could snap back and refuse to eat.

John was _not_ going to let that happen. "I know, Sherlock. You're starving." He smiled invitingly. "Eat up." _Your move, Sherlock_.

Sherlock bit his lip and sighed, content, obviously, to just look. John wondered what Sherlock saw, but the readers do not need to wonder.

Sherlock saw heaven. Yes, well, if heaven could be personified in a food, it would definitely be crepes. They were light and fluffy, like clouds, and he was almost certain that even this sizeable amount of them, lightly folded in two on his plate, wouldn't be enough to fill him for more than a little while. The strawberries sat on top in beautiful bliss, floating lightly on the syrup poured over the French pancakes. The strawberries, without their amusing little leaves, glistened with the fresh glint of honey. Yes. Warm and gooey and sugary honey. Bee vomit. But how could something with so disgusting a connotation…_taste_ so good? Sherlock wet his lips again, his stomach growling loudly in anticipation. What he told John was no exaggeration—he was sure he would, in fact, faint straightaway once the food (heaven) touched his lips.

John was pushing at his eggs absently, waiting for Sherlock to eat. The detective took up his fork and knife and cut a bite. He lifted it to his lips, his hands shaking, partially from anticipation and partially from malnourishment. He closed his eyes as the bite passed his lips and he chewed, swallowed.

Bliss.

Hunger quickly took over, though, and soon Sherlock found himself cutting pieces before he'd even finished chewing. John was eating now, he noticed, just as quickly. When Sherlock took a sip of his coffee he asked, conversationally, if John had been starving himself, too.

John laughed. "No," he admitted, slowing his eating down a bit. Sherlock did too, if only to listen better. "I know what it feels like, though. To starve." He cleared his throat and Sherlock looked mildly surprised. "Of course, it's not as extreme as all that, and oh, I feel dumb. I'll shut up." He shook his head in self-mocking. "You eat. You're hungry."

"Tell me, John," Sherlock left his fork and knife askew on the plate and sat patiently, waiting for John to explain himself. "Tell me." It was soft, but it was a firm command nonetheless.

And John, still too much an obedient soldier, had to obey. Besides, even the toughest Scotland Yard detectives couldn't say 'no' to Sherlock. Calm, quiet, peaceful, soldier John didn't stand a chance. "We had a food shortage, once," he explained. "The enemy had invaded our food stores. Most of the food had spoilt. I was among the few who volunteered to go hungry while we waited for aid from a nearby American camp." He looked at his hands, crossed nervously on his lap. "It wasn't very long. Only for a few days. But I remember how awful it felt." He sighed, knowing this was probably falling on deaf ears. Sherlock had felt so much worse…for sixteen years. "The emptiness, the noise of my stomach against my chest, how hours seemed like eons…" He drummed his fingers as he remembered. "But it ended." He chuckled. "I must've eaten like a pig."

"I'm sorry you had to deal with that, John," Sherlock replied, his voice soft and small. John was afraid he'd made the younger man lose his appetite, for the consulting detective nudged at his plate a little, pushing it away to make room for his elbows. "It is a terrible feeling. I know."

"Don't—don't stop," John encouraged. "The eating, I mean. Don't stop. You must be so hungry."

Sherlock clicked his tongue, throwing his head back against the booth. He dragged one hand absently down his chest, his fingers trembling noticeably. He closed his eyes and whimpered softly. "I am," he confessed with a shy chuckle. Then, he changed positions so fast, John didn't even have time to blink.

It wasn't long before Sherlock had cleaned his plate. There weren't even any crumbs left to show it had held food at all. The only evidence it was dirty was a small puddle of syrup mixed with honey, which Sherlock was absently drinking from a spoon.

_If my description of meat anything is a little lacking, please forgive me. I've been a vegetarian for something like five years and don't take pleasure in meat myself. I try!_

_Hopefully, this has got you all wanting crepes now, yes? Good. Then my work here is done :)-SH_


	11. Part 11

**If I Say No**

**Part 11**

John and Sherlock were both reclining lazily in the booth, warmed to calm with food in their bellies, the taste of their meals still fresh upon their lips, their tongues. Both men sighed simultaneously in contentment, suddenly feeling a little bit sleepy.

"Feeling better?" John asked, lazily touching his stomach.

Sherlock stiffened painfully and he shivered in revulsion. For a moment, he saw the almost demonic smile of his older brother, the mocking tone of voice, the implied comment, even if the younger _was_ severely underweight. He swallowed nervously and looked away, his fingers drumming on the table as he fought the very strong urge to vomit. How many disgusting calories was that? How _stupid_ of him to _drink_ the sugary mess when he was finished! He came very close to crying in distress.

Luckily, John spotted the obvious signs. He sat up, reaching across to grasp the other man's wrist firmly in his own. Sherlock turned around at the contact, a deer caught in headlights. He looked like a lost child, desperately searching for its mother. John smiled softly. "It's _okay_, Sherlock," he murmured. "I didn't mean it like that."

Sherlock blinked, and reason came back to him. _Of course_ John wasn't Mycroft, wasn't trying to make him fat (not that he could ever _become_ fat). John was trying to take care of him. This is what humans said to one another after relieving great hungers. "No, of course not," he murmured shakily, taking a deep breath to calm himself. The warm, welcome feeling of food in his stomach returned to him with that breath. Welcome. So very much welcome. After years of emptiness, Sherlock felt a warmth radiating from deep inside. He smiled blissfully, content not to think at intense speed for a while. _Forever. Until my next case. __**Please**_.

John withdrew his hand, nodding as they got the bill. He counted out the bill while Sherlock rested. John was glad to see Sherlock relent his control and just relax and enjoy himself for a while. He couldn't imagine himself what it felt like to starve for years on end, but he imagined it couldn't be very pleasant.

And it sure as hell couldn't compare to being full.

Sherlock stretched as John finished paying. "Ready?"

"Lead the way," John replied. Sherlock slid out of the booth and John followed him.

"Keys, John," Sherlock's hand shot back as they neared the car.

"You're not driving," it was a tease more than anything else.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was more a gesture of amusement than aggravation in this case. "Yes. I'm capable of it. Besides, I know where the house is and you don't."

"Good point, mate," John handed over the keys and climbed into the passenger side. Sherlock slid into the car gracefully and turned the key in the ignition, firing it up. Then Sherlock slammed his foot down on the gas and sped away up the road, a little faster than the speed limit.

"We _don't_ need to be driving this fast," John pointed out, his knuckles white as he gripped the sides of the car for dear life.

Sherlock giggled. "I'm just excited to show you the house! You'll _love_ it!"

John thought the car's speed was almost worth it, to see Sherlock's eyes light up with genuine glee. Joy looked good on the usually stern detective.

When they pulled up to the house, John's mouth flew open in surprise. "_This_ is _small_ to you?"

The house was not mansion-sized, to be sure, but it was bigger than John was expecting. It was a beautiful creamy white, the shadows of the trees playing merrily on its surface, with a dark roof that was flat enough to sit comfortably on in a few places, coming to a point for the attic room, which was accented by a circular window. There was a slight porch made out of a mixture of stone and wood, with a mat to wipe your feet just outside the door. A golden butterfly knocker hung on the dark auburn door.

Sherlock was already on the porch, bouncing with excitement like a five year old. John shook his head. As he walked up the gravel drive, he could hear the faint singing of the small stream Sherlock had spoken of.

Sherlock led him inside, beaming like a salesperson. "Welcome to Frog Hollow, John."

"Frog Hollow?" John asked, toeing off his shoes. The foyer wasn't all too impressive. The walls were robin's egg blue, offset by a light, golden brown.

"Named it that when I was a kid. I liked frogs." Sherlock shrugged. He dove into the next room fluidly, already so at home here. John blushed as he caught himself thinking about how Sherlock's dark curls perfectly offset the blue paint on the walls. He followed Sherlock only after he was sure the flush had faded from his cheeks.

The living room was a soft lime green. French windows without the blessing (or curse) of curtains led out into the backyard where the oak with the swing, the stream, and the bench swing were all visible. John spotted a few red squirrels scampering across the lawn, a contrast to the laziness of the mid-morning sun. There was a white settee with golden lion claw legs with a high, regal back that looked painful to sit on for any length of time (although predictably, Sherlock was now reclined on it, as he so often would at home in Baker Street), two cozy mustard yellow armchairs facing an unused fireplace, and a dining table decorated with a bowl of fruit (John suspected they were fake) with enough chairs to host a small dinner party or to otherwise entertain. There was also a rocking chair in the far corner, mostly an ornament now and surely gathering dust.

John looked into the small kitchen. The floor reminded him of a clay house he'd seen once in a history book—a warm, brownish-red color. The walls were white, obviously drawing attention to the floor. In fact, everything else in the room was white, from fridge to counters to pantries. Except for a faded little green crayon drawing of a frog (rather good, actually) on one of the pantry doors, signed clearly in a ten year old's handwriting: _SH_. John chuckled and went back into the living room.

"I'd like the master bedroom, if you don't mind." Sherlock said from the couch, at rest though his pose rather looked like the one he often used to think back home. "I find that large-sized beds are better for my height."

"No problem. I'll take the guest room." John didn't mind about the size of his bed. Anything but a cot was ideal. He shook his head.

"What?" Sherlock peeped an eye at him.

"You wouldn't have faired well in the military."

"How so?"

"You're demanding and insubordinate. Any captain would've had your head."

Sherlock considered the possibilities, chuckled. "You're probably right." He sighed as he settled down again, and John thought that he might be trying to kip. His legs were hanging off the edge of the sofa, his shoes discarded and laying in a heap below him. His breathing was calm and soft, his eyes closed peacefully in rest, his hands clasped just below his breastbone.

Then, something occurred to the army doctor. Sherlock felt the sea change immediately and shifted uncomfortably.

"Shit. That can't have been enough for you."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock thought this required sitting up, so he did, his torso twisted so he would look quizzically at John.

John sighed and lowered himself into an armchair. "You must still be hungry."

"Oh, that." Sherlock dismissed by collapsing back down onto the sofa. "I'm okay for a bit." He yawned lazily, one hand absently pressed against his lips as they parted.

"I don't want you to suffer if you really are hungry, Sherlock." John's voice got sterner by half. "You've got a proper eating disorder. You have to know what the cause of my worry is."

"That I won't eat." Sherlock shrugged. "Not a problem. I will eat when you are hungry. We can dine together."

"I want you to be comfortable."

"I am."

"_Sherlock_!" John half-shouted exasperatedly.

The consulting detective sat up and steepled his fingers. He was properly thinking now, his eyes narrowing as he thought. Then, he sighed. "I know you're trying to help me, John, but the disorder is as much about eating as it is about starving. I'm no better for someone _forcing_ me to eat," It was a warning, which John absorbed. Sherlock did not admit, not even to himself (not yet), that John hesitantly suggesting—_ordering_, almost—him to eat had, to put it bluntly, turned him on. In a way he couldn't really explain. Which was why he didn't think about it.

"Okay," John said hoarsely. "I just want you to feel better."

Sherlock took a long blink, and then softened. He never had the energy, it seemed, to stay angry at John Watson. "I know. And I do appreciate it." He leaned back into the couch and sighed, his spidery fingers moving easily against his skin. "I _do_ feel better," he admitted, tipping his head into the soft cushions of the couch. Despite what John thought, the couch was plush and comfortable. And Sherlock could be quite lazy when he wanted to. He let his fingers calculate his state. Despite the recent meal, his ribs still poked out quite a noticeable bit, and his stomach, though it was no longer concave, wasn't really very flat, either. A sigh escaped his lips.

He wasn't lying to John: a warm meal in his stomach made all the difference. But he was still peckish, still frightfully hungry, and he wished (subconsciously—he didn't even understand that he was wishing—) that John would nudge him a little in the direction of food. Because hungry or not, Sherlock rarely ate in front of someone who was not eating themselves, and he knew it would take some coaxing on John's part to get him to relent.

John smirked, as if reading Sherlock's mind. "Bet you could go for a sweet, though, huh?"

Sherlock sat up straight and wet his lips. "Yes. Always." He jumped up from the couch. "Let's go!"

"Where?" John laughed, finding himself pulled to his feet by his flatmate's attractive magnetic force alone.

"There's a great sweetshop in town!" Sherlock exclaimed. "We can walk!"


	12. Part 12

**If I Say No**

**Part 12**

"We're lost."

"No, we're not."

"Okay, since you're leading, _you're_ lost."

Sherlock stopped and dug his hands into his pockets. He didn't look at John but rather scanned the surrounding area as he talked. "For you to tell me I'm lost, you would have to have some idea about how to get around town. You don't, so therefore, you can't tell me I'm lost."

"All right, you've got a point there." John yawned.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing. "There it is!" And he crossed the street imperiously. John rolled his eyes and jogged after him.

The sweet shop was called Claudia's. It had a pink and green awning underneath the wooden sign bearing its name, and was made out of faded red bricks. There was a huge glass window with a display case that showed off fabulous cakes and pies. John felt his mouth water as they entered (as most bakeries do, it smelled like a sweet mixture of the cakes, pies, cookies, biscuits, and tarts that were made here), and was quite surprised that Sherlock didn't visibly melt from the smell of it. The eating disorder had probably given him resistance to smells. To someone who _didn't_ need to lose weight. Not that John did, but it'd make his life easier if he didn't care for delicious smells.

In fact, Sherlock _had_ melted upon walking in…but he was distracted by a familiar face. "Claudia!"

The blonde woman behind the counter who was scrolling through her phone looked up with a smile, her dark eyes bright. "Sherlock, is that _you_?" She danced out from behind the counter and pulled Sherlock into a quick hug. "My, how _big_ you've gotten!" She teased, looking up into his face.

John was worried that the comment might be misconstrued, but if Sherlock was bothered by it, he didn't show it. He smiled instead. "It's been too long, Claudia."

"Well, now we both have phones. Contact should be easier." They separated from their hug. "Who's this?" She pointed at John.

"Oh! Right! How rude of me. Claudia, this is Doctor John Watson, my best friend. John, this is Miss Claudia Summers."

"Nice to meet you," John extended his hand. Claudia took it and shook hard.

"Nice to meet you, too." She smiled. "Sherlock and I are old friends, of a sort."

Sherlock nodded. "She's five years older than me. We met because of Mycroft."

"Summer romances, you know." Claudia giggled. "Sherlock was never popular with the ladies. But he taught me how to catch a frog in their backyard, so we became friends."

"Good thing, too," Sherlock chuckled. "Her mother owns this sweet shop."

"Yep! The shop's named after my great-grandmother, whom I am also named after." Claudia wiped her hands on her apron absently and strode back behind the counter. "It's a little early to be on vacation, don't you think?"

"I just needed to get away from the city for a bit," Sherlock explained. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't completely true, either. Sherlock would never choose to leave the city he loved. But for John, well…

"Figures you'd come here first," Claudia giggled. "Got any idea what you want?"

"No…" Sherlock was examining some of the cases. John groaned internally, certain that Sherlock would probably like to buy the whole store. But, he corrected himself, the sweet shop trip would be worth it, if Sherlock would actually eat. "Anything new?"

"Well, my mum just changed her banoffee pie recipe," Claudia said absently. Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "I'll get you a slice to try." She disappeared into the back room. Sherlock waited with obvious anticipation. John couldn't help chuckling.

When Claudia came back, she had a slice of pie on a dessert plate with a fork on the side. "Here," she sat it down on the counter, "have a taste, Sherlock."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together excitedly and then dove the fork eagerly into the front of the slice. He brought it slowly to his mouth and closed his eyes. "_Mmm_," he swallowed. "That's _delicious_! What did she do differently?"

"She made the pie crust from a richer pastry recipe and added Belgium chocolate."

"It doesn't overpower the hint of coffee at all! And the chocolate compliments the bananas _perfectly_!" Sherlock praised, helping himself to another bite. "I'll order one,"

Claudia laughed and made a note. "She must've known you were gonna be back, Sherlock. She was working on your favorite."

"Really?" John asked. Claudia and Sherlock looked up, and then at each other. Sherlock held up a hand and swallowed before speaking.

"Yes. Banoffee pie is _by far_ my most favorite sweet. Bakewell tarts aren't half bad either. Speaking of," He turned to Claudia once more.

"Oh, yes," Claudia gestured to one of the cases. "Mum just made a new batch this morning. They should still be warm."

"Perfect."

In the end, Sherlock ordered half a dozen tarts and half a dozen of the frosted cookies displayed in the front case, in addition to the pie. "When can I pick it up?" Sherlock asked as he paid.

"Stop by tomorrow. Or I can take it to the house later."

"Can you bring it to the house tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Thanks, Claudia." And Sherlock swept out of the sweet shop, carrying his little tied boxes proudly. Even without his coat, he could make a dramatic exit. John followed him out.

"Mycroft told me once that you didn't _have_ any friends." John spoke up after a while as they took their time wandering back to the house. It was a nice walk, but not an altogether exhausting one, and the day wasn't abnormally hot.

But Sherlock didn't like heat. It wasn't bothering him now, but he could feel it might begin to. "Claudia isn't really my friend. We were playmates as kids. She's really Mycroft's friend."

"Your brother doesn't seem the one to make friends either."

"You're right." Sherlock smiled. "All his friends are 'connections'."

"So is Claudia important to him?"

"Not after she broke it off with him at the end of the summer."

John laughed.

_I might start naming the parts, since this is much longer than I originally thought it could be. Would anyone mind?-SH_


	13. Part 13

**If I Say No**

**Part 13**

Sherlock put the white pastry boxes in the kitchen and stood hesitantly nearby, leaning on the counter, frowning. For some reason, he was losing energy fast, and his stomach was already growling again. He wet his lips, smelling the delicious scent of freshly made tarts still warm, their heat radiating through the box. He could imagine absorbing that warmth and making it his own. Though he preferred the chill of the central air inside Frog Hollow, he wouldn't be adverse to feeling warm and content inside.

He heard John in the other room fetching the suitcases out of the car. He wondered, idly, if John had gotten his suitcases, too.

John was just finished putting down the last of his bags in the foyer and was about to go out and fetch Sherlock's when the man came into the living room and tossed his phone at him. "Catch."

John caught. He looked automatically at the phone, but no text was there.

"Text Mycroft and ask him if mummy had the maid stock our fridge."

"Couldn't you just text your mum?" John asked, obeying anyway because, really, this was Sherlock. And no one disobeyed Sherlock.

Sherlock jumped into one of the mustard yellow chairs and tipped it back. A recliner. He lay flat, his eyes closed, his hands folded neatly at his chest. "Mycroft handles the family estate. Mummy's getting old." He yawned. "Besides, it's easier to text Mycroft and ask than having to call my mum at home."

John got a response text and looked up at Sherlock. "He says yes."

"Hmn. Anthea's handling his texts today."

"She _does_ that?"

"She's his personal assistant. She'd probably relieve him sexually if he wanted her to."

John was a bit taken aback by the comment. That hinted of a stronger relationship between the closed-off texting girl and her boss. He was about to return Sherlock's phone when it buzzed. He looked at the text, resolved not to open it if it was from anyone but Mycroft. But it _was_ from Mycroft. He read it.

_All those sweets will make you sick, Sherlock. If you're going to eat at all, don't focus on indulgence.-M_

John felt like Mycroft deserved a good old-fashioned arse-kicking. He moodily returned the mobile to its rightful owner. Sherlock sat up, bringing the recliner down again, and looked up as John collapsed into the sofa. The detective brought his knees up and curled them under him. "You don't have to continue reading his texts if you don't want to."

"What?" John asked absently, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Mycroft's texts obviously upset you. It's perfectly all right with me if you'd rather not read them." Sherlock's voice was so innocent—and so oddly hurt—that John sat up and looked straight at his friend.

"Sherlock, I'm _upset_ because these _texts_ are causing you _pain_!" He said firmly. "Besides, you shouldn't have to read them yourself. It's part of your therapy."

"Therapy?" Sherlock looked and sounded amused.

"Yes! It would be required if you were in hospital, and on a deeper level," John explained. "They'd ask you questions you wouldn't be comfortable with. Mate, I _know_ about therapy and how ineffective it can be. I've been there. So, the phone thing is therapy, and you can talk to me about something if it bothers you, and I won't pry. Unless that's what you want." John shyly looked at his feet.

"Okay," Sherlock began slowly, playing with his rolled-up cuff. John's head snapped to attention. "I—I'm hungry, and I want to eat some tarts. But," and his face flushed, "I've never—I mean—I'm not comfortable—I can't really eat, when no one else is," He finished, hiding his face in his hands. "And I can't make it to lunch. I'm too _hungry_."

John thought for a moment. Then, he got up and put two strong, warm hands on Sherlock's bony shoulders. "I know," he said softly, his voice a comfort to the detective, who was struggling against his own emotions. "And if you're hungry, you should eat. I'm going to bring your suitcases inside, and then I'm going to unpack in my room. I won't stare." He gave the thin shoulders a squeeze. "I _promise_."

Sherlock smiled, his hunger seeing to multiply, and he gained the ability to actually drive himself to the kitchen to grab a few pastries and a glass of milk to drink them with. John, despite not being a therapist, knew exactly what to say. As John felt the tension leave Sherlock, he smiled and set about doing what he said he would. Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen. He took a plate and selected three of the tarts and then poured himself a glass of milk.

He returned to the living room, where John was just carrying the last of his bags into his room to unpack. Sherlock's bags lay at the door. Sherlock smiled and flicked on the telly that sat over the fireplace. He settled down to eat the tarts, which were tangy and responded easily to his eager teeth. The warmth of the strawberry jam filling was enough to stir his taste buds into arousal and the flaky crust still warm from the ovens made the experience pleasurable.

Sherlock savored food, rather than devouring it, at the best of times. When hunger was the victor, however, Sherlock found that he would devour with abandon and without control. The first tart had been eaten in this way, but Sherlock slowed as his hunger faded into the distance, his empty stomach settled by the warmth coming from the tarts. So it was that Sherlock would lick a bit of jam from the pastry before it fell onto his shirt or his jeans, would nibble at a bit of crust that was about to fall to the floor, and would lick his fingers afterwards, removing any remaining trace of the pastry.

Sherlock was on his last tart, quite full between the crepes, the pie slice, and the filling tarts but always with an appetite for sweets. He took two quick bites, relishing the flavor of strawberry exploding on his taste buds. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, happily satisfied by the sweet. It reminded him he hadn't had the pastry since his last birthday, and that was quite a shame, really, because he _adored_ Bakewell tarts. And he had the metabolism and job that allowed for an occasional indulgence. Or for frequent indulgence, whichever struck his fancy. He took another bite, careful to rescue a stray bit of jam that was about to fall onto the chair, savoring it as the warmth traveled to his waiting stomach. The last bite, he simply popped into his mouth, chewing happily and finally swallowing, his treat complete.

Sherlock licked his fingers contemplatively, and then licked the last traces of the tarts from his lips. He leaned the recliner back and sighed, absently dragging a hand down his chest. His ribs were there still, but hidden under skin and not as prominent. He felt at his stomach, which was flat now. He smiled, replete, and rubbed his stomach thoughtfully, calmly, relishing the feel of its presence. He was so unused to it, this feeling of contentment and fullness, but he found that he liked it. He closed his eyes, smiling wider.

He liked it…until his mind brought up images of the overweight Mycroft, beaming at him from across the table, gobbling up turkey covered in gravy from his plate. Sherlock felt a brief bit of panic at how much he'd eaten, but managed to pull away from that. He'd been brilliant of late, before going on holiday, solving cases that left the Yardies as stupid and brainless as pigeons. He _deserved_ this. He _deserved_ the flat stomach and the warmth from within. He shifted on the chair and yawned sleepily, ready for a kip.

Then, his phone buzzed.

Sherlock ignored it for a moment, and then pulled it out. The text was from Mycroft. Sherlock lazily let his hand fall to his side and thought he should call for John. Nope, that wasn't going to happen, even though it should. He was just too tired. The laugh track on the telly was actually soothing, the quiet of the country home a blessing compared to the noise of London. He yawned again and let his eyes close, his head slack on his neck.

Just as he thought he might drift off to sleep, his phone buzzed again, waking him with a start because he'd been resting it on his stomach and the vibration buzzed through him violently. He sat up reluctantly and glared at his phone. Two new texts from Mycroft. He wanted to call for John, but sighed and opened up the texts meant for him.

_We should meet when you get back to London. Check on your progress.-M_

_Full off of Bakewell tarts? You little piggy. Are you sure you can still eat dinner now?-M_

Sherlock swallowed, and instantly regretted reading the texts. He laid his phone aside and closed his eyes.

_Don't throw up, Sherlock. You deserve everything, every calorie, every bite. You do. You __**know**__ you do._

He shivered and shook, repressing the urge to vomit so hard that his muscles began to hurt from the tension. But, he got away from the negative thoughts and pushed Mycroft firmly from his mind.

Exhausted from the mental turmoil, Sherlock fell into a quick, dreamless sleep.

_I thought it needed more drama…silly me._

_Pretty soon, I will have to up the rating to M. Just because there will be Johnlocky goodness (it will be my first time writing them sexually! I'm so excited and I hope you are, too!) and it's going to be HOT! _

_I sincerely hope that I won't lose any readers. And by "soon," I mean much later (I doubt even 15 or sixteen will contain M content). So if you're waiting for sexytimes, good! If not, well…I hope it won't make you stop enjoying the rest!-SH_


	14. Part 14

**If I Say No**

**Part 14**

John finished unpacking and thought he'd go back into the living room to check on Sherlock. If he was still eating, than the doctor would simply find something to do. If Sherlock felt uncomfortable eating while other people weren't (John didn't quite blame him for that one—he felt a bit awkward the first few times it'd happened to him, too), then he wasn't about to make the sick man feel put-out. He needed to feel comfortable with his eating habits, no matter what they were. Insecurities could be dealt with later, after the main problem (getting Sherlock to eat) was solved.

When John pattered out into the living room, he saw that Sherlock was resting comfortably. His eyes were closed, his hair tussled from the wind and the car ride, the dark curls sticking up in places and slicked down in others. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his hands were clasped loosely at his stomach. John noted that Sherlock looked better, even if the improvement was slight. Sherlock's stomach was flat instead of concave and he looked slightly less pale than he had before. Sherlock's breathing was calm and deep and even, and John thought he was asleep. He also knew that Sherlock's healthy look was temporary—he was just too malnourished to keep up the appearance. But he enjoyed the look while it lasted.

John was about to go figure out how to make some tea when a voice startled him.

"Here," Sherlock, without opening his eyes, stretched his hand back over the head of the chair absently, holding out his phone. "You should look at these."

John had jumped right out of his skin, because he'd been under the impression Sherlock was fast asleep. And Sherlock could be a heavy sleeper when he chose. "Sorry," John apologized lamely as he took the phone, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Sherlock stretched his arms out above his head and twisted his torso to the side slightly. As he stretched, John thought he could literally _see_ Sherlock losing the weight again, the ribs becoming stark, the hipbones severe, the stomach concave. "I was sort of awake, anyway,"

John read the messages with a sort of reserved annoyance. Yes, he was pissed that Mycroft's texts were still coming, but he didn't need to get worked up over them for nothing. Sherlock would know about his frustrations, anyway, without him having to vent. "Did you sleep _at all_? That's important, too."

"A bit," Sherlock admitted, stretching his legs out one after the other and then arching his back, his head tilted backwards, the pale expanse of neck beautifully exposed. His china blue eyes flicked towards John. "I'd love some tea if you're making it. The kettle's the same here as in 221B."

John smiled. "Okay." He handed Sherlock's phone back to him and went to make the tea. While the water boiled, he went back in to watch Sherlock.

The detective's eyes were glued to the telly, which still had on some ridiculous crap that was on reruns. After a moment, Sherlock flicked off the telly with a showy flick of his wrist and settled back into the chair with a weary sigh. He tilted his head back so that he was looking at John upside-down. "John?"

"Yes?"

"I…" Sherlock trailed off, and then he sifted until he was lying on his stomach on the chair. John frowned sympathetically. It didn't look comfortable; chairs were made for sitting, not for lying. But Sherlock wasn't doing it for comfort. The consulting detective rested his chin on his folded arms. "I…want to talk about something."

"All right. Do you want the tea first?"

Sherlock thought about it and then nodded. "Yeah. That sounds good."

"Right." And John went back into the other room to make the tea. He poured the boiling water into two mugs he found in the cupboard (clean mugs that were easy to find? It was obvious no Holmes had lived here for some time!) and located the tea bags that the Holmes family maid had obvious purchased. John recognized the brand as Sherlock's favorite and grinned as he stirred sugar into Sherlock's and tipped a tiny bit of milk into his.

When he brought the tea back in, Sherlock had pushed the recliner back into its original position and was sitting sideways in it, his back against the armrest. He was curled up, his knees pressed towards his chest, as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible. He accepted the tea with a nod and a small smile and sipped at it with the hesitant grace he was well known for. John set his tea down on a nearby coffee table and turned the chair slightly on an angle so he could sort of face Sherlock. The army doctor had guessed correctly that Sherlock's frankly uncomfortable-looking position was not merely the result of laziness, and that the lanky consulting detective was not inclined to move heavy objects. Nor, as the posture also indicated, was he about to let John do it for him. Oddly considerate of him.

As John sat down in his chair and took his tea and sipped it, Sherlock mentally prepared himself for this aspect of his recovery. He _hated_ talking about personal matters, but John just seemed such a huge part of the reason _why_ recovery at all was necessary (and John hadn't forced him to hospital upon finding out) that Sherlock felt it would be churlish _not_ to tell him.

So Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and began. "I did almost throw up when I read the texts. But I refrained." He smiled. "I won't be doing_ that_ again any time soon. I like the feeling," he looked into his tea mug shyly. "I like the feeling of warmth in my stomach. It feels…nice, and I really want it forever. I don't want to deny myself if I don't have to."

"Good for you, Sherlock." John smiled approvingly, glad that the recovery was already going so well.

"I don't think it was ever about image for me, though," Sherlock went on, slowly getting more and more thoughtful instead of conversational. Which was fine with John, because when Sherlock was in a thoughtful, deductive move, he was more likely to reveal one too many details, or let something slip that he would've rather kept private. "At least, not until I threw up that one time. I'm not really sure what it was about—the reasons seemed to change. At first, it was about the job," he sighed. "Always the job. I had to be lean and fit and hungry to do what I do so well. And I think I _will_ still starve myself on cases—but, then, it doesn't _feel_ like starvation, never _feels_ like when I would deny myself food off the case. It just feels like work."

"I understand," John interjected, because it helped Sherlock if he interspersed his monologues with little comments or questions. And also because John really did understand. Sherlock's job was his life. He would've been a great copper, had his brother not starved him into poor shape for the physical.

Sherlock nodded once to show John that he'd acknowledged the comment and went on. "But after I failed the police physical, I was angry. Frustrated. I don't think I listened—or maybe I deleted it—when the reasons why I failed were presented to me. I fled. I left Cambridge and ran away to London. And then I was homeless. I used to deal cocaine, but I dropped off the scene after gaining enough money. I'd flirted with danger at uni, but it was only once or twice. I was never addicted. I'm only ever afraid of a drugs bust because of all the experiments I do—there are chemicals in the flat that can easily be misconstrued, you understand. But when I was homeless, living off my wits on the street, I rarely thought about eating, because the starvation didn't bother me. I was already used to it. But eventually, I could rent a hotel room and I could wash and bathe. And I began to help out Lestrade. So I never really thought about eating. I was working, and I loved the work, and that's all that mattered."

"You probably would've been the best cop in the world," John mused, laughing.

Sherlock laughed, too. "Probably." He steepled his fingers and caressed his thumbs with his lips before continuing with his narrative. "And then, it finally became about Mycroft. When Mycroft began to tease me, it was about getting even, staying skinny, endless competition. It was as if I was scorning my brother, rubbing it in his face, if you will, that I was leaner, faster, maybe not cleverer but with better self control, than he. And then he insinuates that I'm fat, that I need to diet, that I'm doing so _well_. Years of that just made it all so…overwhelming, and—" Sherlock interrupted himself, his lips closing firmly. He was done talking for now. Maybe because he didn't _need_ to tell John about the rest, because John was _there_ for the rest.

So John nodded and stretched out a little, careful of his wounded shoulder, which still hurt when he bent or stretched it too much. "It's fine. Know any good places to grab lunch?"

Sherlock nodded. "Plenty. Shall I list some, and you can pick?"

"I picked for breakfast, though."

"I don't mind. At this rate, I'll eat anything with a decent flavor."

"Good to know." John smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

And inside, Sherlock remembered those smiles of relief, of approval. And his ever-active mind decided that it liked seeing John relieved and approving.

_You're going to get better, Sherlock._

_I am. I'm going to get better._


	15. Part 15

**If I Say No**

**Part 15**

John ended up choosing a merry little pub called The Black Duck that was within easy walking distance of the house. Despite Frog Hollow being secluded, it wasn't all that far from town. It was just out of the way enough that one could spend a quiet afternoon without hearing the bustle of the tourist town.

As they walked, they talked about cases and the town and John's blog and Sherlock's website. Sherlock deduced things about people they saw passing by and John kicked a rock until it turned into a game of football, where he was trying to keep it away from Sherlock, and they were nearly tripping over themselves to get at it, giggling madly like children. When a rather risky kick on John's part sent the rock skittering across the road, they looked at each other, panting breathlessly, and giggled some more before walking along in silence again.

John eyed his flatmate, and noticed the red flush that being active in the warmer weather had put into his cheeks. His hair was lightly tussled, but since Sherlock had ran a brush through it before heading out, it looked softer and tamer than it had before. From what he could see of Sherlock's pale eyes (hindered because of his height), he saw that they were lit up with a spark of life he hadn't seen in his flatmate for a long time (except maybe on a case). His thin, pale, soft lips were still curved upwards in a smile at the edges, and John blushed, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his shorts, as he thought that Sherlock's laugh was perhaps the cutest sound in the world.

Sherlock's thoughts were not far from his flatmate either. He found that his cheeks grew hot when he thought of John these days, his feelings only multiplied when he saw that John was protective of him. He was secretly proud that John was disgusted with Mycroft, and he had deduced that John thought he was beautiful. It wasn't something he felt about himself. Who would want _him_? Who could want damaged goods? John, his mind now answered when he got to feeling down. And that made his smile get a little wider.

When they reached The Black Duck and were shown inside to be seated, they ordered drinks and looked at their menus.

"What are you getting?" Sherlock asked as he sipped his green apple iced tea.

John shrugged. "Probably a salad." John was not a vain man, nor did he care much about weight, but he was trying to keep himself _somewhat_ healthy. And he'd had a bit of a big breakfast, so it was time to even out the day.

Sherlock closed his menu and set it down, leaning his arms on it. "I'll have that, as well."

"No you won't," John scolded, which made Sherlock eye him curiously. The army doctor ignored the somewhat frantic undertones in the light blue eyes and paged through his menu. "You need to eat something more substantial than that. How about pasta?"

"Salad is fine," Sherlock replied calmly. "Besides," he added dismissively, "I'm still full from this morning!" Of course, his stomach followed that with a ferocious growl. Sherlock flushed and curled up into himself.

John laughed. "Sherlock, salad won't put an ounce on you. Look how you're shaking! You need _real_ food."

Sherlock looked shyly at his trembling hands. For some reason, he was ravenous, and he didn't understand. "Then why are _you_ eating salad?" He whined petulantly.

"Because my metabolism isn't half what yours is," John explained. "And I'm not the one who needs to put on weight."

Sherlock blinked a few times, processing the information. Then, he nodded. "Okay. I trust you."

John looked again at the menu. "Sherlock, you should look at this. On page 4, they have some good-looking pasta dishes. One's with white sauce and has shrimp in it."

Sherlock reluctantly looked, and his mouth began to water. "That's what I want," he said huskily, wetting his lips.

After they ordered their food, they got to talking again. John would ask about patrons, maybe deducing things himself, and Sherlock would correct him if he was wrong and smile if he was right. But Sherlock was still dancing around something, so John hesitantly placed his hand over Sherlock's, feeling the tremors there from malnutrition and nerves. "What's wrong?" He asked softly.

"I'm—" Sherlock sighed shakily, closing his eyes. "I hate myself." He looked out the window, his face hard and stern and unreadable.

"Why?" John didn't move his hand. Sherlock's was cold beneath him, but he hoped that he could bring some warmth to them.

"Because I'm hungry," Sherlock replied stiffly. "_Starving_, in fact. And I shouldn't be."

"Why not?"

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and stomped his foot angrily. "Because," he growled, his voice venomous, "I've had _too_ much to eat today!" He was almost shouting.

John gave his hand a squeeze, and Sherlock relaxed, looking pale and sick from the effort of shouting. "You haven't, really, Sherlock," he soothed, his voice low and affectionate. "You only _think_ you have. You were telling me earlier that you _liked_ feeling warm and full, right?"

Sherlock nodded grudgingly, and then weakly put a hand to his head as he felt dizzy.

John smiled. "Sherlock," and John saying his name was like a magic word in and of itself, enough to pull Sherlock away from negativity. Suddenly, he and John were the only two humans on the entire planet. And nobody else mattered except John. Not Mycroft, not himself. Just John. "Your eating disorder is what's making you think these thoughts. Do yourself a favor and listen to your body. Do you think you can work on doing that?"

Sherlock ground his teeth in agitation. John leaned forward across the table, closer than he'd ever dared to get to Sherlock when space restrictions didn't force it, and murmured, "For me?"

Those words sent a sensation through Sherlock that softened and aroused him in ways he couldn't explain. His stubbornness and self-loathing melted away and his tense muscles relaxed. "Yes," he breathed, knowing that his pupils had dilated just slightly and hoped John hadn't noticed (the pub was rather dark, anyway).

John patted his hand and pulled back. "Good. Now, are you going to eat?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm starving." Sherlock wet his lips.

"That's it," John smiled approvingly. Sherlock's heart thrilled in his chest, and for a second, he thought he was going to pass out.

_Since when has anyone affected me this way?_

John laughed, and pointed to the woman sitting at the table alone. "Widow?" He asked.

Sherlock looked and nodded. "Very good, John. Her husband died three months ago."

"She loved him."

"Yes, she did."

Their food came and the waitress set it before them before hurrying away to tend to other customers.

John dug into his chicken salad, enjoying the taste of the fresh green lettuce and the crispy chicken, wrapped up in tangy Caesar dressing. It was great, tasty, wonderful, and probably the most enjoyable salad he'd had to date. Which said a lot for salads.

Sherlock's pasta plate was warm, the long, thin noodles in a white sauce curled over each other like the weaves of a basket. Poking out of the warm nest of noodles were curled pink shrimp, with the tails already severed and ready to be eaten. Sherlock twirled the pasta around his fork and gingerly brought it to his lips.

The warmth he felt was incredible, to say the least. He hummed in delight as he chewed and swallowed. The buttery, savory pasta was touched with an aftertaste of shrimp, and Sherlock speared one and popped it into his mouth. He licked his lips and smiled as he swallowed. As an experiment, he took a forkful of pasta and swallowed it whole without chewing. It felt funny, all those noodles tumbling down the back of his throat—very much like eating worms. But at the same time, it felt good, the thin strips just slithering so easily down his throat—! Sherlock groaned with ecstasy, his stomach begging him to eat more, to eat faster, to finish quickly. So he did.

John poked around his salad, glad that Sherlock was enjoying his meal. He finished up his salad just as Sherlock was eating his last bite.

Sherlock swallowed and sighed in relief, letting his fork clink against the plate. His stomach had a slight roundness to it, which John enjoyed seeing beneath the grey shirt. John sipped at his tea, chuckling as Sherlock muffled a burp. "Good?" He asked, amused.

Sherlock patted his stomach. "_Very_ good." He licked his lips. "Care to share a dessert with me? I'm still hungry."

John raised an eyebrow. This was the first time that he and Sherlock had actually ever discussed sharing food. But, he dismissed it—whatever made Sherlock happy. "I saw a delicious-looking chocolate cheesecake on the menu. Want to share it?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, and ordered it at the next possible chance.

When the slice of cheesecake came, Sherlock eagerly forked a bit and John hesitantly took a sliver. The consulting detective hummed with pleasure, closing his eyes and tilting his head back _just slightly_ to reveal the pale expanse of neck sticking out from his shirt collar. John saw the reflex of swallowing when the neck was exposed, and for some reason, that made a hot shiver travel to his groin.

"You like it?" He asked, giggling.

Sherlock, by way of response, took another forkful into his mouth. The cheesecake was light and airy, the chocolate flavor explosive on his tongue. It was cold, compared to the warmth of the pasta, but a good kind of cold that hurt his teeth. He licked his lips of every last bite after swallowing.

John demurred after having two bites and let Sherlock devour the rest. The man certainly had an appetite for sweets—not that John was complaining. On the contrary, he was taking mental notes, should Sherlock ever have a relapse or be particularly pissy after a case.

Sherlock swallowed down the last few bites and let his fork rest upon the dessert plate. With a smile, he drank the rest of his iced tea and settled into the back of his chair with a lazy yawn. His stomach was a little flat again, although it was probably more of a brief distension until he gained more weight, but it was nice to see at any rate, and John drank in the sight of a healthy Sherlock, able to imagine that flat stomach making an appearance more frequently…and he found himself aroused again.

Sherlock was full and happy and sleepy. Sure, his metabolism was fast, but food in his stomach made him lazy. All he wanted to do was curl up in one of the recliners and read a good book or watch some crap telly and then have himself a long nap in the shade of one of the trees outside. The afternoon sun was hotter than it was the rest of the day, and it was perfect for napping under. He wanted John to join him under one of the trees and read a book while he slept, the soft swish of a turning page helping as a lullaby to keep him asleep.

They paid and left the restaurant, strolling down the street in near-silence, taking in the beauty of the day and each other.

Later on, John went outside to sit under the tree and read. Sherlock plopped down beside him and lay flat upon the grass, his hands crossed lazily over his satisfied stomach. The warmth of the day, the laziness of the English countryside, and the soft sounds of John turning the pages in his book lulled Sherlock into a deep, easy sleep, where he dreamed of John touching his lips and pulling him in for a sweet, appropriately messy kiss.

_I've made you all want cheesecake now…my bad! Changing it to M because of this chapter being…mmm…suggestive. It didn't originally turn out that way but these boys write their own porn. Seriously. _

_Anyway, it is still quite fluffy! Why is full!Sherlock so cute?-SH_


	16. Part 16

_This is turning into more of a recovery story than an actually eating disorder fic. I literally had no idea…but I guess the recovery is part of it, since Sherlock's not 100% better yet. Anyway, I'm rambling. Blah blah. Enjoy this!-SH_

**If I Say No**

**Part 16**

John yawned and put down his novel. He was tired of reading for now, and because he'd gotten lost in the book, he didn't know what time it was.

He'd been aware that Sherlock had joined him under the tree, but didn't think much of it. Sherlock had little to no regard for another person's personal space, and seemed to invade John's more and more often. He'd only been living with the man for a month, but he'd definitely seen a more childlike and trusting part of Sherlock very few people got the chance to see. Maybe it _was_ only John who got to see such a side of him. Either way, John's heart began to beat faster in his chest when he turned to look at Sherlock.

The younger, thinner man was stretched out on his back, his legs parted slightly at rest, his feet relaxed instead of rigid. His shirt had come untucked in sleep, and was resting against his jeans, the wind billowing it slightly, moving the forgiving silk like a light-colored flag. One arm was thrown haphazardly over his chest while the other was curved on a right angle on the other side of his head. His face was turned away from John, but a slight movement of sun caused a sleepy grunt of annoyance and John watched his brow furor as he turned his head into the shade and towards him. Now, with the afternoon sun shining through the leaves above their heads and casting their shadows on the sleeping man, John saw Sherlock's delicate closed eyes, the dark lashes a sweet curtain on his cheeks. His pale lips were closed, probably because Sherlock would taste grass if they opened, but weren't clamped shut. The cupid's bow upper lip which made his open mouth look like a heart was endearing, and John had the sudden urge to kiss those soft lips, faint lines showing where they were recovering from being chapped by the harsh autumn winds. His dark, curly hair was fluffed by sleep and the soft wind, making it seem puffier than usual. It caressed his forehead, accenting the thinness of Sherlock's face.

And oh, was Sherlock thin! Of course, being malnourished, he was far from healthy, but John could tell that, even without the gift of metabolism, Sherlock would still be thin, forever having a flat stomach, if not less than that. For now, the skinniness was unnatural, brought upon himself from years of starvation and denial of proper nutrition. In the rare few times when John had seen Sherlock healthier, the buttons on his shirts strained to stay buttoned up. Now, the shirts he wore looked far too big on him, his form was swimming inside them. And the great coat, surely, was meant to do more than create dramatic exits and keep out the cold.

John wanted to run his hand down Sherlock's body. Asleep as he was, underside up and vulnerable, it seemed the perfect time. _Just this once,_ John thought, _and never again. We'll just be flatmates. That's all_. But his resolve bucked, because he was uncertain if Sherlock would wake up under the touch or stay asleep.

Sherlock seemed to decide for him. With a soft moan, he shifted, his hand falling limply off his chest to rest at his side. With a few turns of his head, Sherlock settled down again. _Dreaming,_ John thought, and every manly bone in his body fought the reaction of "awwww" that seemed to be just behind his lips. But now, Sherlock was exposed. Some of the buttons had come undone during the day and probably moreso from sleep, and now revealed that the seemingly endless neck tapered into a perfect collarbone, cut away because of starvation. John could see bone against the pale expanse of skin, but saw no body hair. It was fitting that the body of an angel be free from manly hair. Even though Sherlock's meal had been enough to fill him (it _was_ the reason for his deep sleep, after all), his fast metabolism had been quick about making the soft rise of belly fade away into sharp concave edges once more. John sighed. They had a lot of work to do, if those edges were ever going to disappear. Sherlock's shirt had hitched up, revealing that his pants were a bit too big, and that even the belt Sherlock wore had trouble keeping them fitting snugly. Sherlock's breaths made his stomach rise and fall…and John had a kinky thought about now nice it would be to see Sherlock's belly filled until it was nice and round…and then he shook it off. But he couldn't resist his hands' hunger to touch his flatmate any longer.

John took a shaky breath to prepare himself, and then he slowly reached his hand out. He started at the base of Sherlock's neck, his fingers just a moth's landing at the throat's end. Sherlock's body was still fairly cold—colder than was natural, particularly in the soothing warmth of the heat of the day, and Sherlock hummed in his sleep as he felt the warmth. John smiled and shifted until he was resting on his knees so he could properly touch and feel. He smoothed his calloused fingers down to Sherlock's chest, giggling under his breath as Sherlock would hum or purr or shift under his touch without waking. John wasn't looking, but Sherlock's pale lips were pressed into a smile, his dreams coming true as he slept.

John hesitated when Sherlock's shirt prevented him from going farther. Skillfully, he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and let it fall away. Sherlock writhed as he felt air on his body, and John jumped back, afraid that Sherlock might wake. But the consulting detective was still in the throes of sleep, and so didn't deign to awaken. John licked his lips, feeling his cock harden as he touched Sherlock's ribs, tracing them elegantly with his finger. Sherlock writhed under the touch, giving a sleepy giggle, and John flushed, his smile widening as he realized Sherlock was ticklish. Oh, he'd have to put that to good use sometime. He dragged his fingers down Sherlock's stomach, diving them down into the concave valley, caressing the soft, baby-like skin. By now, John was achingly hard. He didn't even realize that his feelings for his flatmate were as strong as his body was telling him they were. He fingered the button on Sherlock's jeans, fighting the urge to undo it and just get a whole view of Sherlock. He was content instead to trace the rib shadows that ghosted against the porcelain skin, thrilled as he heard the sleepy giggles erupt from Sherlock.

The consulting detective was by now half-conscious, though his eyes were still shut and dreaming. He recognized the calloused fingers of his flatmate, and was curious as to why John was touching him. Regardless of the reason, it felt good. Soothing. Wonderful. _Arousing_. Sherlock felt his cock hardening, a sensation he'd never experienced as a child, except once, when he awoke from a wet dream in an aroused and sexually frustrated sweat. But he'd been young, then. Sixteen or seventeen. And that hadn't felt quite as good as _this_. Sherlock was content to flush and giggle when he felt John's fingers on his ribs (a part of him that was _extremely_ ticklish due to its high sensitivity), though he wanted to wake up properly and tell John to just take him, take him _now_ because his cock was aching to be relieved. He opened his eyes silently, to find that John was hard as well, getting off on touch alone. So, Sherlock wasn't the _only_ one so easily stimulated. The doctor's pupils were dilated from the sensation, the flush of his cheeks and the smile on his lips absolutely perfect.

Sherlock sighed and moved his hand to press over John's. John was startled from his stroking, and looked up to find Sherlock very much awake, very much as hard as he was, and smiling about it.

"You love me." It wasn't a question.

John sighed, feeling his arousal pass. "Yeah, I do."

Sherlock chuckled. "Okay, good. The feeling's mutual. I thought maybe it was just me." He stretched and sat up slowly, leaning lazily against the tree.

John joined him. "So, what now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I dunno. I'm not experienced in relationships."

John laughed. "We can figure that out later. Neither one of us is ready for the next step."

"Mmm," Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he thought. "After dinner, maybe."

John snorted out a laugh and hit him playfully. "_Sherlock_!"

Sherlock ducked away from the hit, laughing. "What? You'll be content and so will I. Neither of us will be hungry or without energy."

John rolled his eyes. "Right, okay. How do we do it?"

Sherlock began to button his shirt again, but he rolled his shoulders easily. "Just do what feels natural, I suppose."

_Because we all want to touch Sherlock's chest. Wheeee! I think I died. __Andthentheyhavesex__-SH_


	17. Part 17

**If I Say No **

**Part 17**

The sex did not happen.

In fact, the subject of sex was dropped altogether. The two men took a few steps back, pretending like the lazy afternoon under the tree had never happened.

A day passed, a day that was rainy and sulky and filled with custard for breakfast, and soup for lunch and dinner, and then a sharing of the remainder of the small supply of desserts from the bakery. And then, yes, the banoffee pie. But that, Sherlock insisted, should be eaten tomorrow.

Custard and soup were not very filling meals, so Sherlock and John were both quietly starving as they shared the remaining three tarts and the six cookies as rain fell and lightning flashed and no one was in the mood to even _think_ of sex. The unsubstantial food source of the day left Sherlock feeling irrevocably weak and ghostly pale. It seemed that his famished body, after being provided with sustenance the day before, had nearly shut down completely in protest against the unsatisfying foodstuffs. Sherlock's movements lacked grace, and he stumbled about like a toddler trying to learn to walk. John finally walked Sherlock to bed, distressed that there was nothing he could do to help Sherlock's malnutrition.

It was morning. John had gotten sleep, but it was restless sleep that was often disturbed by his failure as a doctor for not properly taking care of Sherlock.

He was lying in bed, the covers folded around him like a little tent, in nothing but an undershirt and boxers, half awake. That was why he was confused when he heard the floor outside creak softly. His eyes fluttered open as the doorknob turned.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, the white door and room only serving to accent his paleness and fragility. It didn't help that he was only wearing boxers—a sort of muted gray color, the elastic taken in with poor hand stitching—and his whole upper body was naked. He leaned against the doorframe, scrubbing his entire arm across his eyes. John sat up slowly, the early morning sunshine and birds singing outside meant that the storm had passed. The day promised to be temperate and beautiful, but John couldn't take his eyes off the exposed skin.

Sherlock looked truly awful again. His ribs poked out harshly, his hipbones severe, no fat to protect his bones from the thin layer of skin. His shoulders were like saw blades, his cheek bones looking as if they'd cut diamond. His eyes were sunken, listless, but his pale mouth smiled as he removed his arm from his eyes, letting it rest against his side, but not before it paused to brush the thin line of his concave stomach. John shivered, knowing that Sherlock was truly sick, if all their hard work so far had been undone in a single day.

"Hey, Sherlock," he greeted, folding his hands on his lap and smiling nervously, shy of his own hunger. His stomach grumbled in his chest, reminding him that custard, soup, and sweets were simply _not enough_ to run on.

"Hey," Sherlock's voice was soft, forgiving, but excited and wired. John looked, and the pale blue eyes were alight under the tussled curls. "Fancy a picnic brunch?" He was smiling. "It's the perfect day for it—promises to be just the mixture of humidity and sunshine we need!"

John chuckled. "Well, _you're_ eager enough! What time is it?"

Sherlock yawned. "Ten thirty-nine, last I checked."

"How long've you been up?"

"Since ten thirty-five."

"Ah." John got out of bed and stretched, noting Sherlock hadn't moved out of the doorway. "Do we have anything still left to pack?"

"Oh yes. The maid came by early this morning to drop off some more groceries, courtesy of mummy. She's been trying to feed me up since I was a nipper." He gestured back into the other room. "I'll get us a carpet and pack a basket." And he disappeared with alarming speed for looking so pale out of the doorway.

"Sherlock!" John called.

"What?" A dark head of curls popped back into the room.

John was tugging off his nightshirt. "Don't forget to get dressed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, mummy,"

John laughed.

Before it was half-past eleven in the morning, Sherlock and John were following the stream down the property that made up Frog Hollow, toting a portable carpet to sit on and a picnic basket to carry their food in, both of which John is carrying. He's wearing cargo shorts and a short sleeved button-up to match, trainers replacing his ordinary shoes. Sherlock looks divine in breezy blue jeans and a regular purple v-neck with an intricate design on it that somewhat resembles a Chinese character, also in trainers (John wasn't even aware that Sherlock _owned_ trainers, never mind that he _wore_ them).

John is content to follow Sherlock, the carpet over his shoulder and the basket swinging merrily in his hands. Sherlock is traipsing along ahead of him, his arms stretched out as he hums softly, walking along the stream's edge. John gets the mental image of Sherlock as a child, before the weight of adulthood pressed on him, before he had to worry about eating or what he ate, before London, before Cambridge, before Mycroft turned against him, when he was just a lad, walking along the stream, humming, his arms outstretched for balance. John didn't know what Sherlock was humming, but as he listened to little other music besides violin concertos, it must've been one of those.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmn?"

John had two questions he wanted to ask, and both were hovering on his lips. He was uncertain which answer he wanted more. The design on Sherlock's shirt seemed to wrap around his ribs and crawl up to bloom into something like roots on a plant on his back, the black edges twitching upward towards that pale expanse of neck, sheltered by the familiar scarf, tied tightly at his neck. Thus proving the scarf was more of a fashion accessory than something meant to keep out the cold.

Finally, John picked a question. "What are you humming?"

"Concerto for two violins in D minor. Bach," he added as an afterthought.

"Oh," John's thoughts were clipped by the comment. Sherlock skipped over a rock and dove his hands into his pockets. He'd not offered to carry anything, and John didn't make him. With how weak he'd been yesterday, John loathed pushing his strength too far. "Where are we going?"

"Upstream," Sherlock replied. "Frog Hollow just gets the most narrow part of the stream. I'm taking you to the end." He looked back over his shoulder and smiled. "It's a nice secluded area, surrounded by trees. Very shady. The mouth of the stream trickles out into a rather sizeable basin, with stepping-stones to get to the far bank. It's beautiful."

John laughed. Sherlock glared. "What?"

"I never thought you'd appreciate beauty."

Sherlock rolled his shoulders. "You don't know me very well."

"No. I don't."

It was the closest they'd gotten to any sort of sexual hinting, and they didn't even realize it.

When they had reached the thickest part of the stream, Sherlock took the carpet from John and went to go spread it out under a tree with a large trunk and sizeable branches, good enough to provide and a chair for them both. John simply stared, wide-eyed.

The clearing was simply beautiful. Here, the late morning sun streamed like heavenly rays through the branches of the many trees around them, casting shadows on the perfectly green grass. Rabbits dashed out from bushes, startled by each other, on the far side of the bank, while a sizeable hawk watched lazily from far off. Some birds were tending a nest in the crook of a nearby tree, and John thought he spied evidence of small snakes here and there. The amount of trees filled the air with a sort of salad-akin smell and taste—fresh. Nothing like the smog of London air.

"John!" Sherlock, already comfortable on the carpet, was beckoning him over. John walked over as fast as he could. Their walk to the glade had worked wonders on his already sizeable appetite, and he couldn't imagine Sherlock was anything less than absolutely famished.

John sat smoothly on the carpet and set the basket down between them. Sherlock dove forward, still on his knees, long bony fingers quickly undoing the clasp and opening the mouth of the basket. He then proceeded to set out their meal.

There were two sizeable submarine sandwiches with thick, fresh bread, made with ham and eggs and shreds of salad, tomatoes and onions and salt and pepper, with just a thin spread each of mayonnaise and ketchup, to start with. There were several varieties of apples, and green and red grapes, and even a few stems of cherries. There were two large bags of crisps, light and flaky and salty just the way John and Sherlock liked them. There were water bottles and some diet cola cans to drink. There were a few biscuits and four muffins. For a small dessert, there were two sizeable chocolate chip cookies.

The two men sat back in a simultaneous sigh/groan/keen of ecstasy, hands finding their stomachs, eyes closing, heads lolling to heaven. Sherlock was the first to recover. "My God," he sighed, swallowing as he looked at John. "I'm _starving_! You?"

John nodded, eyes wide. "Famished." Eager eyes flicked from the veritable feast that lay before them, to Sherlock, who was leaning weakly against the tree, cradling his nigh-nonexistent midsection. "Shall we?"

Sherlock waved his hand, inclining his head. "After you, Doctor."

John's hands dove for his sub, and Sherlock was quick to follow suit. The two men soon found that the thick, fourteen-inch subs were still not enough to satisfy their famished bellies. They tore through the crisps, drinking water and cola every so often, devoured the various fruits until only pits, stems, and cores were left, and stuffed their faces with biscuits and muffins, finally finishing off their feast with the cookies.

Both men were shoulder to shoulder against the tree trunk, their legs stretched out, bellies full and warm, their masters content. Sherlock burped, and giggled, his hand flying to his mouth too late. "Pardon me!"

"It's all fine, mate," John commented as he burped as well, patting his slightly raised stomach, delighted at the ringing slap that resonated from its bulge.

Sherlock rubbed his belly as well, suddenly feeling quite sleepy. His appetite (and his starved body—there was no need to pretend _that_ had not had a hand in this) had gotten the better of him, leaving in its wake, besides a devoured picnic, a lazy, full feeling, and a slight rise to his stomach. He wet his lips, the taste of his feast still lingering on his tongue. He'd eaten so swiftly in an effort to eat just as much (if not more) as John that his brain hardly had time to calculate taste and sensation. Maybe later he would scold himself for that. But not now. No. Right now, that speed eating had felt good, and he was rewarded with a slight belly and an all-around sleepy feeling.

John was feeling much the same as Sherlock. He peeped at his flatmate through lazy eyes and saw that the thin shirt Sherlock was wearing served to accentuate the faint curve of belly the thin man now sported. John smiled, and looked the consulting detective up and down. Sherlock no longer looked so pale and delicate. His cheekbones, though still a bit harsh, were softened, his shoulders the same way. There was a soft, contented pink in his cheeks and around his throat, and some color had returned to the porcelain fingers. The eyes were closing, unable to stay open, driven to sleep, surely, by the rather large meal they'd had.

"Think this'll hold till dinner?"

Sherlock peeked a weary eye at his friend and smiled, settling in for a long nap. "There's only one way to find out, right?"

John snorted. "_God_, that food was good. Where did you get it all, Sherlock?" No response. "Sherlock?"

But it was no use, for Sherlock was already sound asleep, snoring slightly from exhaustion and well-deserved contentment.

_I wasn't ready to write porn. Eep!_

_John's developing a belly kink…teehee. I think we all have one when it comes to Sherlock. Am I right?-SH_


	18. Part 18

**If I Say No**

**Part 18**

Sherlock stirred and yawned, stretching out on the carpet. His neck was sort of stiff from being propped up against the tree, and he slid down a few inches so that his head was resting on the carpet. He lifted his hands to his neck, long fingers beginning a massage to relieve the cramps.

As he stared into the treetops above his head, listening to the natural lullaby of birdsong, soft wind whistling through the leaves, and the bubbling of the stream, he recalled the reason for his dozing—and the reason for his lingering laziness.

He had eaten a large meal. Not more than his stomach could hold, but enough so that he felt sufficiently stuffed. Sherlock was still feeling the effects of the food. He could feel the slow, thick, fat feeling settling into his body. His mind wasn't moving at dizzying speeds and in fact refused to think at any speed other than the slow, dreamy sequence of this exact moment. He yawned again, stretching his arms and legs out one by one, hearing the muscles crack as he did so. He felt _so_ much better for the food inside him, though. Even though it made him slow and sleepy, he enjoyed the feeling. He slid his hand down his lean body, feeling as he breathed the ribs and the concave curve that wasn't quite as noticeable as before but was still there as a reminder that the belly had been temporary, that it would take time before Sherlock was well again.

That was time Sherlock was happy to give himself. He thought of the banoffee pie chilling at home, and desired suddenly to eat the entire thing, without leaving a single crumb in the pan. He wet his lips and his stomach gave a muted rumble—now _that_ was odd! Sherlock's stomach _never_ growled unless he hadn't eaten in _days_! Well, a lot of things had changed on this holiday already, the consulting detective thought.

And then, his thoughts swiveled to his older brother, Mycroft.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook with violent emotion, emotion he didn't know he possessed the capacity to feel. He remembered that day not too long ago, sitting across from Mycroft at a restaurant when his voracious hunger had gotten the better of his careful starvation diet, his practiced control, and devoured an entire crab cake in fifteen seconds. He remembered how embarrassed he'd felt of a perfectly natural phenomenon, how he'd tried to quell it by drinking water. But water was not food; water was just a fuller version of empty. Mycroft had noticed, but had been kind. It was not so when Sherlock began to eat regular meals.

Mycroft's diet had trimmed him, and now he looked at Sherlock with disdain a year later. The consulting detective, by this point, was eating almost regularly, only starving himself for cases or experiments. He indulged, as he had in his youth, eating rich foods and sweets, trusting his metabolism to take care of anything the occasional fast and high-speed chase didn't. Which it had. Sherlock's stomach was closer to being flat—not _quite_ flat, but not concave, either. Ribs were still visible beneath the skin, he was still incredibly (impossibly?) thin.

And yet Mycroft had sneered, had joked that obviously America had agreed with him, had basically called him fat. And all the shame of Sherlock's youth washed over him.

Sherlock shuddered, feeling quite ill as he remembered Mycroft's words.

"_You're looking __**much**__ better, Sherlock," his brother purred, carving his chicken. "I suppose the Americas have done __**wonders**__ for your appetite."_

How could something so…insignificant cause so much pain?

Sherlock opened his eyes, feeling like he needed to vomit. John. Where was John? He heard a soft splash and sat up in alarm, breathing heavily, focusing on keeping his stomach's contents where they belonged—where they were being put _to good use, dammit_—dizzy from hyperventilation.

John had made the splash. He was sitting on the bank of the stream skipping rocks over to the other side. Sherlock rose to his feet, trying to settle his breathing, and went over to sit beside his friend.

John smiled as Sherlock joined him. "Did you enjoy your sleep?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes on the water. John skipped another stone. It flew across the water three times before sinking down into the clear, fresh water. Sherlock took a stone and lobbed it into the running water, watching the ripples from the splash flow outward. He wished that John could be inside his head, too, to fight away memories of Mycroft's bullying.

John seemed to sense something was wrong. Gently, cautiously almost, he placed his calloused, tan hand on top of Sherlock's pale, cold one. Sherlock didn't flinch or pull away. The idea of personal space had long since dissolved between them. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly, nervous that he could very nearly _feel_ the partially digested contents of his stomach in his throat, and looked down at the hand that rested on his before speaking. "Mycroft."

"Did he text you? I thought you left your phone at the house."

"I did," Sherlock admitted. "He…he invaded my mind palace."

"Your 'mind palace'?" John shook his head fondly.

Sherlock cracked a small smile. "Yes. It's where I store all my information." Then, he frowned again. "I wish you could be there, too. To keep Mycroft away from me."

John rubbed his thumb in a comforting circle over the back of Sherlock's hand. "Maybe I can't, but my voice can." Sherlock jolted and stared right at John. "You can use me, my voice, to block Mycroft out of your mind. If noise stops your thoughts, maybe noise is all you need." He smiled shyly, removing his hand and skipping another stone expertly across the stream.

"I like that idea," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Noise. _Your _noise." He leaned towards John and nestled his head against the soldier's shoulder, feeling the muscle ripple beneath him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of John. The soft hiss of the fabric against his ear as John moved, the mumbling as he thought about a stone to throw, the grunt of effort as he threw the stone, the soft plopping as it skipped, and the satisfied plunk when the water swallowed it whole. This noise, this welcome noise, that would give him a break from silence, would save him forever from Mycroft's haunting voice.

Finally, John asked: "Are there any good pizza places around here? I feel like Italian tonight."

Sherlock chuckled. "There is. And they deliver."

"Hmn," John nodded. "A night in sounds good." He shifted, forcing Sherlock to leave his shoulder. "You won't be bored, will you?" His face was tragic, looking so hurt.

Sherlock pressed his forehead slowly against John's. "Never of you, John," he reassured him, before tentatively touching John's lips for their first kiss...

_OH MY GODDD! Sorry for shortness! Eeeeee I'm tired.-SH_


	19. Part 19

**If I Say No**

**Part 19**

Sherlock kissed tentatively, tilting his head slightly for better positioning, obviously inexperienced. John kissed back, much more experienced and forceful. Sherlock jolted and thought about pulling away, but John's hand pressed gently against his neck, holding him close. Sherlock sighed into the kiss and let himself be led. _I trust you, John._

And John was not about to take advantage of that trust. He licked at Sherlock's lower lip, begging for entrance. Sherlock let him, and almost regretted it when he felt another tongue enter his mouth. His tongue licked at the intruder slyly, and the intruder lapped at the top of Sherlock's mouth, just behind his front teeth. Sherlock moaned softly, and let John's experience pleasure him. Not even the first warning that he was beginning to run out of breath would stop him. He closed his eyes, his arms encircling John's neck.

Finally, though, John pulled away. They were both panting, both pink-faced, lips red and swollen from kissing. Sherlock shyly let his arms drop from John's neck, but the soldier kept his hand on the pale neck. He tucked a finger below the scarf, earning him a giggle and delightful wiggling from his partner. Sherlock's hand reached up to stop it and brought it back to its owner's lap with a squeeze. "Dinner?" He asked. "By the sun, it's nearly five o'clock."

John nodded. They went to collect the carpet, the basket, and the remains of their feast, and then headed back to Frog Hollow, hand in hand.

When they got back to the house, Sherlock located his mobile and called for pizza. He ordered a large cheese and a large pepperoni because pepperoni was John's favorite. He also ordered a liter bottle of cola, two side dishes of pasta, and garlic bread. John was sitting in the recliner, listening to Sherlock order, and burst out laughing when he got off the phone.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, collapsing onto the couch.

"Do you really expect us to eat all that?"

"We ate as much at brunch. Why not?" And Sherlock stretched out onto his back with a satisfied 'mmmm,' falling silent, his eyes flowing closed.

John shrugged. "Okay, you've got a point there." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response, folding his arms over his chest. The soldier smiled. "I'm still rather full. That was _delicious_."

"I'm glad you think so." Sherlock replied. "I thought we needed a better meal after the unsatisfying day of meals yesterday."

"Mm, you thought right." John rubbed a hand over his belly. "I am getting kinda hungry again, though."

"Mm, good, because I'm starving again and I hate eating alone."

John laughed. "Better save room for that pie! It won't taste as good tomorrow."

"Oh, I plan to," Sherlock wet his lips hungrily and turned to look at John with those piercing blue eyes of his. "Besides, I'll _always_ have room for sweets!" He added cheerily.

John chuckled, and silence fell over the room as the two men contemplated their hunger. When the food arrived, Sherlock went to the door, paid, and then set the food down on the dining table at the far side of the room. John followed the smell of food and sat down. Sherlock handed John a carton of pasta and took his own. The two men dug in without saying a word.

"Mmmm," they both hummed after a while.

"Oh God, this is _the_ best pasta I've ever eaten!" John praised.

"Mm, yes. I told you this place was good." Sherlock replied, twirling the pasta around his fork and lifting the bite to his lips. His mouth closed around the fork, and the now-clean fork descended again as he chewed and swallowed before taking another bite.

John nodded. "Well, you were right!" He, too, took another bite, tearing through his meal like he hadn't eaten in years.

When they were done with the pasta, Sherlock opened his pizza and John opened his. They sighed deeply, inhaling their respective favorite flavors, mouths watering. John was starting to feel full, but he guessed that Sherlock's appetite was still strong. He recalled the small belly Sherlock had sported after finishing the feast, and wondered if it could be coaxed out into appearance again. "Do you think you can eat that entire pizza?" He asked.

Sherlock hesitated, frowning. Then, he shook his head. John, disappointed, let the conversation drop. They dug into their pizzas. John was on his third slice when he saw that Sherlock had only eaten one slice and was nibbling on some garlic bread, looking sick. John put down his slice. "Sherlock? You okay?"

Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head. "No. I, uh," but his breathing was shaky as he covered his mouth with his hands, swallowing, trying to keep his stomach's contents where they belonged. But he didn't look green, so it wasn't the flu.

John knew exactly what it was. He rose from the table and clapped his strong hands on Sherlock's tense shoulders. "It's _okay_, Sherlock. You're not fat, you've never been, and I doubt you ever will be. Relax. It's okay to eat." He walked around to Sherlock's side and lifted a piece of pizza to Sherlock's level. Sherlock turned his head, his breathing shaky, his eyes full of pain. "That's it, Sherlock," John cooed, slowly moving the edge of the pizza slice closer to Sherlock's mouth. "Take a bite. Come on, now."

Sherlock stilled, sniffed, and pulled back. "No," he said crossly, but his stomach growled, and he flushed.

John smiled, his eyes and voice soft. "Please eat, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes. His hands were at his chest, his fingers flexing, not knowing what to do or what to grasp. Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and leaned forward to take a bite. As he chewed and swallowed, John watched the hunger come back to him as he obediently fed his partner the rest of the slice. Sherlock dived into his box for a third, a fourth, and John went back to finish his third and final slice, going slowly so as not to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable or gluttonous. Before long, Sherlock had eaten the entire pizza.

Sherlock started when he realized what had happened. He closed the pizza box and shyly looked away. He knew John still had most if his pizza left, and was now eating some of the garlic bread. But he, _he_ of all people, who was unconcerned with eating, dismissed his body as mere "transport," _he_ had eaten an entire pizza.

He felt guilty and overjoyed at the same time. Overjoyed, because the warm sensation in his stomach was unmatched by anything else. For once, he felt as if he had internal heat, and that he could go out into a cold winter's day without his coat like this and still feel perfectly warm. With the coat, he would feel like an oven. He wet his lips and sighed, feeling the slight rise in his stomach. What made him feel guilty was that he was still quite peckish.

"You see?" John teased. "You _could_ finish the whole pizza!"

Sherlock chuckled and smiled shyly. "I wonder if I could finish that whole pie now." He mused, drumming his fingers on the table.

"I think there's only one way to find out," John grinned, getting up from the table. He walked into the small kitchen and dove into the refrigerator, fetching the pie. When he came back, Sherlock was sipping at his soda. Again, Sherlock's thin shirt gave John the advantage of seeing Sherlock's slight belly. He wondered if the detective's stomach could hold an entire pie, when it was already holding an entire pizza, but decided not to question it. If Sherlock's appetite was driving him, all the better.

He set the pie and a fork in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective seemed to be having second thoughts. John's thoughts were confirmed when Sherlock pushed away the pie. "Maybe I shouldn't…" he began.

John pushed the pie back towards him. "I can see that you want to. Go ahead."

Sherlock took up his fork and carved out a bite of pie. His frown of hesitance remained until the pie touched his lips, the flavors exploding in his mouth. He began to eat faster, enjoying the fresh taste of the cream, the dark chocolate, and the melty bananas, with just enough hint of toffee. The crust was perfect, the taste satisfying, and Sherlock was quick to devour and leave no crumb behind.

After Sherlock had finished the last bite, he put the fork down and leaned back in his chair. His stomach was truly stuffed now, and he had a bit more belly than he was comfortable with. But the feeling was _heavenly_. Sherlock burped behind his hand and closed his eyes with a sigh, licking the last tastes of the pie from his lips. "That was _divine_," Sherlock sighed dreamily. "_The_ best banoffee pie _ever_!"

John licked his lips, too. He was feeling rather aroused, seeing Sherlock with a belly, and this was becoming a problem. He thought Sherlock looked cute, too, his head thrown back against the chair, his hand resting on his stomach. He got up from his chair and leaned down to kiss Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock kissed back. He tasted of whipped cream and chocolate, though the overwhelming taste was obviously banana. John kissed harder, getting intoxicated. Sherlock let him lazily, happy to be loved, glad to be kissed.


	20. Part 20

**If I Say No**

**Part 20**

A lazy hour passed in silence at Frog Hollow. The remains of dinner still lay out on the dining table, but the two young men were no longer sitting at it, talking and digesting, maybe even kissing.

No, the two men were sleeping.

Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch, stretched out completely, both hands resting on his stomach. Although his metabolism was painfully fast, there was still a slight, contented rise to his stomach. It was enough to make him feel warm and content and full and sleepy, and for the moment, Mycroft and his bullying were forgotten, sleepy bliss replacing concern.

John was snoring loudly from the recliner, which was completely stretched out. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so much good food in one sitting! Except maybe that morning, that is. His dreams were focused on Sherlock's belly—and the fact he actually had one. Being a doctor, John very much doubted Sherlock would be able to sustain a round tummy—the man's metabolism must be through the roof! But it was admittedly nice to see one on him. And maybe he could convince Sherlock that having one wasn't so bad. It might, at the very least, encourage a regular eating schedule. How nice to would be to see Sherlock eating three meals a day, the ribs sliding deeper and deeper beneath layers of skin!

The doctor sat up, realizing he was hard. He sighed and relaxed himself. Well, there was no going back now. He was gay for his flatmate, and that's all there was to it. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes and looked over at Sherlock, who was still asleep. As John had predicted, Sherlock's metabolism had taken care of the large bulge that had resulted from eating so much. He cringed in sympathy at how _hungry_ Sherlock's body must be, how _eager _his stomach is to digest, to bring lovely nutrients to the overworked, underpaid body of the consulting detective. This was a man who pushed himself too far almost daily, who, when he was on a case, would stop at nothing to solve it. Who hadn't had a decent meal in years. Who maybe hadn't eaten _at all_.

He smiled sleepily to himself. It would do the man some good to have fat stores. That way, maybe he wouldn't be so fatigued by cases. He flicked on the telly and started to watch some rather ridiculous science fiction movie about a werewolf on the moon.

While the werewolf was attacking a stray astronaut, Sherlock became conscious. Softly, he shifted positions until his back was against the arm of the couch. Soundlessly, he stretched, feeling his shirt hitch up as he did so. He slid a hand down his chest and smiled when he noted his high metabolism had been quick to erase most of the evidence of his meal. Though he still felt full, he didn't feel lazy or stuffed, and that was good. But, as he backtracked through his mind and realized how much he'd eaten, he began to feel ill, and his fingers itched to hold his phone. He curled his knees to his chest and bent forward, resting his chin on his knees and closing his eyes. He could see the sorts of texts Mycroft would be sending him now, if he hadn't sent them hours ago, swarming before his eyes like a cloud of angry bees.

_You shouldn't be as hungry as you are. You ate too much at breakfast as it is.-M_

_Why do you like feeling full?-M_

_You're overeating, gaining weight. Don't you feel awful?-M_

_And what will happen when you can't feel your ribs anymore, Sherlock? Don't forget, they're your friends.-M_

Sherlock whimpered, and it must've been louder than he intended it to be because John was attentive in half a second.

"Sherlock? What's the matter?" The sound of screams from the telly stopped, though Sherlock could feel the bright flickering colors from the screen dancing on his closed eyelids.

The consulting detective tightened himself into the little ball he'd created to block out the world and opened his eyes. John's face oozed concern and…love. Affection. And that only made Sherlock want to cry. _How can he love me? I'm so fat! And ugly! Why does he love me? I'm so much more beautiful when I'm just skin and bones._ But he swallowed down his emotions and shrugged apathetically. "Nothing." He didn't like the way his voice trembled. He swallowed and tried again, his eyes falling to his hands, linked about his knees. "I'm fine."

"No you aren't," John replied calmly. It wasn't a mocking tone, or a nasty tone, or a "bit not good" tone. It was…nice. Loving. Soft.

It made Sherlock wonder why he ever agreed to tell John about his eating disorder, to offer his family country home to his friend, to eat, to heal. He didn't need to, of course. He'd only thrown up once, after all. He could've kept his mouth shut, have been more careful, eaten just a teaspoon more each day when he wasn't on a case and then throw it up when John wasn't home. He went out often enough on dates, anyway, trying to convince himself he wasn't gay. Idiot.

It made Sherlock wonder why he was so stupid. _I will never eat again._

Silence reigned. John sighed and went to sit beside his flatmate. "Please tell me, Sherlock. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"I don't need help." Sherlock replied passively. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you," John's wide blue eyes got just a fraction wetter and a whole lot softer as his arm reached out to touch Sherlock's bony shoulder. "I love you, Sherlock. I hate it when you're suffering."

Sherlock felt the urge to pull away from John, but he couldn't deny the way his heart fluttered like a butterfly when John said 'I love you.' But that was only because Sherlock loved him, too. So the detective sighed and placed his hand over John's. He smiled. "I can't believe I ate that much!"

"I can," John replied, smiling too. "You were hungry, and you're underfed and underweight as it is. Your body was trying to get nutrients into you, and the best way for that to happen is for you to eat something. And you did." He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "And that makes me happy."

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from saying: "But I'm _fat_."

"No you're not."

"Maybe not as much now," Sherlock conceded. "But earlier…after I'd eaten…"

"And what did it feel like?"

The question made Sherlock implode. "I was…" He tried to remember, tried to block out the disordered thoughts clouding his mind. "…warm." He smiled, remembering. "I felt like I could go out on a cold day and feel warm. Internally. Without my coat. It felt…nice. I was sleepy and compliant, but…" And he snuggled closer to John on the couch. "It felt _really_ good."

John put an arm around Sherlock, and then put his other arm round him, drawing him closer. The detective wrapped both his arms around John's middle and nuzzled into John's shoulder. He had a perfect view of John's tanned neck from here, and he wondered what it might taste like. Sherlock tentatively stuck his tongue out and gave a little lick.

John shivered from the contact. "Sherlock…" Then, he chuckled. "I _like_ seeing you with a bit of tummy. But I don't think you'll _ever_ keep it."

"Why's that?" Sherlock purred, continuing to lick John's neck.

The army doctor felt explosive, ticklish pleasure from feeling the man's tongue on his sensitive neck. He was quickly becoming senseless with arousal. But Sherlock's question seemed to bring him back to Earth. "Your metabolism is so high," he explained, "I doubt it would be easy for you to keep a belly. Even if you wanted one."

Sherlock rubbed his curls against John's shoulder. Wait…he stopped. The army doctor had said that he _liked_ seeing Sherlock fat! The consulting detective wasn't too sure how he felt about that. He preferred seeing his ribs ghosting beneath his skin, as they had in his youth, his flat stomach just slightly molding between his ribcage and around his hipbones. Maybe John liked him that way, too. But things seemed rather sudden right now. "John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock tilted his head to look up as John tilted his to look down.

"Let's have sex."

John looked puzzled for a moment, and then laughed. Sherlock frowned, and was about to be very much embarrassed before the army doctor got up. "Your room? My bed's too small for two."

Sherlock jumped up from the couch and grabbed John's face between his hands, crushing his lips against it for a messy kiss. John eased into it and started pushing his partner towards the bedroom. Sherlock complied.

When they reached the bedroom, they both felt a little bit awkward. Sherlock because he was a virgin, and John because he'd never had sex with a man before. They undressed back to back, shy in front of each other. Sherlock crawled to the center of the bed and John turned around.

It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

_I'm not ready to write the porn! Sorry guys! I don't know why I'm shy to write gay sex anymore. I was so good at it when I was sixteen. Then again, I've never written gay sex between two human beings who bear resemblance to actors I feel like I know in real life. _

_Anyway, I'm crazy and kooky, but I'm getting there. Sexytimes WILL ENSUE next chapter. Until then, au revoir!-SH_


	21. Part 21

**If I Say No**

**Part 21**

Sherlock's skin was milky white, untouched by even the slightest hint of sun. The hair on his legs was barely noticeable, the feet looking awkwardly large on a man so thin, a man so quiet on his feet, he rivaled a cat. There was a flush on his perfect cheeks, his untamed curls dancing into his eyebrows, the blue eyes transfixed with some desperate, fragile, shy look. His arms lay across his midsection, obscuring what John most wanted to see, his breathing effortless but rapid, pupils widening, slowly obscuring those china blue eyes. He was trembling all over, but whether from cold or nerves John couldn't hope to tell (particularly when he was this aroused). There was a slight rippling of muscles beneath the deceptively thin arms and scrawny legs, and John licked his lips upon seeing the man's all-too-evident hidden strength.

The army doctor inhaled a sharp breath, feeling it paralyze his lungs like the freezing, bitter air of London's damp, arctic winter. He slowly got on the bed, his army tags scraping against each other with a soft, merry sound. "Spread your legs, Sherlock," he put his hands on Sherlock's knees, coaxing them apart when their owner was hesitant to comply, his voice hoarse and deep and husky.

Sherlock blushed even harder until his face was all pink and bothered when he was exposed; cock hard, long arms flailing for a spot, stomach already settling into a slightly concave position. He seemed to be shedding calories like layers, just from being so nervous. John chuckled as Sherlock moaned, already leaking pre-cum. "Don't be so tense, love," John slowly ran a hand from Sherlock's waist to around his jutting hipbones, up his sides to his ribs, which were nicely hidden beneath a thin layer of fat and skin. It wasn't nearly enough, no, but Sherlock was getting there, getting better. If being horribly slow at it. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock's breathing became ragged, innocent, little whimpers escaping him, shivering and tensing as John slowly dragged his fingers back towards his waist, down his thigh. "Now you know—how fat—I am. No need—to eat—any more." Sherlock gave a sharp yip like a pleading dog as John teased his cock with warm, calloused fingers, his neck curving backwards, eyes flowing closed, hands clenching the bedclothes.

John was smiling all the while, marveling at how Sherlock's writhing was making him harder and harder. He was so aroused, he wondered how he was even seeing anymore—his pupils must have been blown so wide that his eyes were black as pitch. Moving with instinct alone, he thrust his cock forward so that it touched Sherlock's. There was a moan from both of them, and a sigh of pleasure from the detective. John crawled up Sherlock's body, now prostrate on the bed, groaning as their cocks touched on his way up. He was now positioned above Sherlock, and with one trembling hand, he cupped behind Sherlock's neck and brought the man up slightly, Sherlock following his pull obediently until the strain of sitting up halfway without proper support made his form tremble. John brushed his lips over Sherlock's forehead, using his nose to peel away errant curls. "You are beautiful," he repeated. "Not fat at all. In fact," and he let Sherlock fall back towards the sheets with a grunt, diving down to follow those perfect, rose-colored lips. The window in Sherlock's room had a perfect view of the setting sun, which, had you been standing at their bedside, backlit the lovers to create a perfect film scene.

John kissed Sherlock, starting tender, but quickly growing insistent, their tongues already tasting each other, wrestling for dominance in the small space between their joined lips. Sherlock was compliant, simply happy to be kissed, his arms wrapped around John's shoulder blades, pulling him closer. But he wanted the carnal passion now, his instinct wild. No wonder he kept it restrained. Before John could pull away from his lips and take control again, Sherlock wrapped his violinist's fingers around John's cock and held gently, but firmly. Sherlock's fingers were like ice and John cried out, pulling away from Sherlock's lips with a displeasing suddenness, before he descended to Sherlock's neck and bit down hard. Sherlock moaned, but held on, tugging John's cock insistently down, closer to his own.

John, bless the man, understood, and let go of his bulldog grip on Sherlock's neck. Once their cocks were close enough, Sherlock pressed them together and began to rub them against each other, the friction between then marvelous. Sherlock groaned and bit his lower lip, neck thrusting back with each rub. John, pulled by Sherlock's hand, rode into his lover, moaning as he grabbed Sherlock's thighs for leverage. More experienced in sex, John began to thrust forward into the other man's cock, making Sherlock cry out in pleasure, his eyes squeezing shut. John had to capture those lips, bite at that neck. There hadn't been nearly enough foreplay for his liking. But Sherlock's cold hands (quickly being warmed by body heat) and the feel of cock against cock—the sort of sex that John's body told him felt _right_—made him close to a climax.

"Nngh, Sherlock," he groaned, chomping down on his lower lip.

"Mmm?" Sherlock's curls were damp with sweat, and one naughty one was plastered to his forehead, creating a little teasing swirl of black against the marble white. His eyes opened, but were glazed with lust, the pupils dilated so much, they almost obscured the pretty blue.

"I'm—close," John moaned.

Sherlock grunted an assent and thrust up into John's cock as John thrust forward. That made John's load come out in a messy white squirt. Sherlock released their cocks, panting, trying to get his bearings. But he ached to be relieved as well, to be pleasured as well as to give pleasure. John, tired but not exhausted (sex on a full stomach gave him more than enough energy to keep sex going for several hours—though he doubted his partner had as much stamina), crawled up Sherlock's body, his limp cock brushing against Sherlock's, making the detective yip again. John licked his lips.

"What a delicious noise," he purred, sliding down until he was lying almost flat on op of Sherlock, his breath tickling the pale expanse of neck. "You're so beautiful," he mused, finding that his word of the encounter. "Like an angel…so unreal…" The army doctor nibbled teasingly on Sherlock's neck, worrying the Adam's apple. Sherlock swallowed nervously, his breath coming is quicker huffs, as if he's just sprinted ten miles. John bit down on the side of his neck and Sherlock cried out, his voice cracking with pleasure, though afterwards, he managed a disdainful snort.

"Hardly. I'm far from perfect. Far from being enough to please you."

John lifted his head, watching Sherlock, who was slowly losing is arousal, losing pleasure, losing his will to heal, refusing stubbornly the love he was being shown. John felt so sorry for him that he kissed him. And this time, the kiss was sorrowful, tender, gentle. Sherlock took control of it more, but kept it tame. When they pulled apart, John pushed the naughty curl out of the way.

"You _are_ perfect." He affirmed, smiling lazily.

Sherlock looked away, blinking back a tear. "You implied before that I wasn't heavy enough to please you." He looked back. "I never will be." His eyes were so sad that John's heart felt like it'd been torn to bits by a rabid animal or devoured by a hungry fire.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," John purred, taking Sherlock's cock firmly in hand, making his lover gasp. "I _meant_ that you can afford to hide these _ridiculous_ hip bones, and cushion your ribs a bit more." And John proceeded to wank Sherlock. "You are _insufferable_ the way you torture yourself. You _don't_ know you're beautiful. I'll make you see—"

But Sherlock thrust into his hand twice quickly, cutting John off. "No more—of that," Sherlock huffed, and John was glad to see the pupils blown wide again, the face flushed with arousal. "Shut up—and _drive_," and he thrust into John's palm again and again to, if you'll excuse the pun, drive the point home. John rubbed him a little faster, with Sherlock thrusting in good rhythm, until the detective came in a messy little spurt of white sperm.

John crawled up to rest beside Sherlock, latching onto his lover's energy—or lack thereof, in this case. Sherlock's breathing was heavier than was normal, his chest heaving, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. John tutted, smoothing a hand through the detective's damp hair. "I think I worked you too hard," he mused, examining Sherlock's trembling, weak body. "It was too much for your malnourished body to handle."

"My transport is _fine_," Sherlock panted, "and I—I am weary with _bliss_!" As if to prove it, he leaned over and kissed John until he had to pull away to catch his breath. "I've never felt better," he declared brightly, voice low and breathy.

John kissed his shoulder, delighted at the shiver that resulted. "I'm glad." He wriggled until he could get the duvet out from under them and then draped it over their naked bodies. Sherlock drew John close to his chest, letting the army doctor rest his head, the army tags silent and cool between them.

For the first time in his life (outside of his prowess in crime-solving), Sherlock felt appreciated, needed, important. Loved.

And it was not a feeling he was going to forfeit anytime soon.

_Yayyy my first porn! I feel like it sort of sucks…sorry!_

_Unfortunately, I start school very soon, so I suspect my work will be neglected. Boo. But who knows? Maybe I'll get some downtime. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my first porn! More to follow, I'm sure.-SH_


End file.
